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LESSONS IN ELOCUTION; 

OR, 

A SELECTION OF PIECES 

IN 

PROSE AND VERSE, 

FOR 

THE IMPROVEMENT OF YOUTH IN READING AN]) SPEAKING. 

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, 

€lzmznts of (Bzztxtxz, 

ILLUSTRATED 

BY PLATES, AND RULES FOR EXPRESSING- WITH PROPRIETY THE 
VARIOUS PASSIONS OF THE MIND. 

ALSO, 

AN APPENDIX, 

CONTAINING LESSONS ON A NEW PL-AN, 

BY WILLIAM SCOTT. 

ENLARGED 
BY NEW SELECTIONS, MOSTLY FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE, 

BY JAMES D. JOHNSON, A.M. 






PHILADELPHIA: 

THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO 

1849. 



flit 3 ' 






Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by 

THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO., 

in the clerk's office of the District Court of the United States, for the 

Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



(2) 



PRINTED BY SMITH & PETERS, 

Franklin Buildings, Sixth SWeet below Arch, Philadelphia. 



EDITOR'S. PREFACE. 



We present the public with a new edition of Scott's Lessons in 
Elocution, at the risk even of being considered "old-fashioned ;" 
because, after much experience in teaching, and notwithstanding 
the numerous new works of similar character which have been 
published of late years, we are persuaded that Scott's selections 
from the classical literature of the English language, as a whole, 
have not been, and cannot be, excelled. 

The only liberty which we have taken with the body of the 
work, has been occasionally to intersperse some new selections, 
mostly from American literature, as we feel persuaded the ori- 
ginal compiler himself would have done, had he lived to witness 
its development. To this development no one has contributed 
more than himself, by familiarizing the mind of our American 
youth with the best and most eloquent passages of the great 
prose and poetical authors and orators of the mother country ; 
and no one would, with more pride, have acknowledged the 
creditable advance which we have made in our national litera- 
ture. But that it would ever have occurred to him that his 
work of patriotism and love, built of the venerable materials of 
the Augustan age of British literature, might, properly, be en- 
tirely superseded by selections from a literature comparatively 
of yesterday, we cannot suppose. " Westward the course of 
empire," and of literature also, he knew had " taken its way." 
But he knew, too, that the claims of necessity, and the difficulties 
of life in a new land, and the tumults of revolution, although 
demanding stout hearts, and strong minds, and rough hands, ill 

(iii) 



iv EDITOR'S PREFACE. 

assorted with the elegant ease required for the successful wooino- 
of the muses. And, therefore, we may conjecture, that had he 
lived to the present hour, he would have been of the opinion, 
that Shakspeare and Milton were still unrivalled by American 
poets ; Addison, and Johnson, and Goldsmith, not entirely sur- 
passed by Irving, or Paulding, or Willis ; Robertson, Gibbon and 
Hume, yet respectable models of historical style, compared with 
Marshall, Grimshaw and Bancroft, or even Prescott; Tillotson, 
and Atterbury, and Blair, at least primi inter pares, by the side 
of Mather, and Edwards, and Dwight, in the pulpit ; Mansfield 
and Chesterfield fit companions of P. Henry, and Calhoun, and 
Clay, in the Senate ; and Cicero entitled to a corner in the forum 
where Ames and Pinckney, and Wirt and Webster, figured. 

None are prouder of these great American names than our- 
selves, or more sensible of the propriety of introducing them 
into a work designed for the youth of the country. But we are 
persuaded that they themselves would prefer to stand in their 
appropriate relative positions, in the long gallery of illustrious 
worthies of the mother-land, rather than to occupy, in solitary 
grandeur, niches few and far between, as yet, in the temple of 
American literature. 

The only other change which we have introduced into this 
edition, is an abbreviation of the "Elements of Gesture," attached 
to former editions, and which seem to be a sort of heir-loom. 

We have endeavoured to retain, in this abbreviation, every 
thing practically useful, leaving out only the more discursive 
parts, and the whole sketch of the Passions. 

The whole of the "Extracts from Walker's Elocution," em- 
braced in former editions, will be found in the present. If there 
be any value at all in such mere abstract rules, these, we 
believe, will be found more valuable than many of the more 
artificial methods which have been, of late years, devised to 
teach a correct and elegant elocution. 

For ourselves, however, we confess to a want of faith in the 
value of any mere artistical rules for the attainment of this 
desirable end. The celebrated thrice-repeated answer of De- 
mosthenes, when asked what eloquence was, that it consisted in 
"action," is not more true, than that elocution is only to be 
attained by oft-repeated practice. Were we, in conclusion, 
required to suggest the fewest possible rules on this subject, we 



would propound the following, to be found in the Table on 
page 12. 

From these few short rules, it will be seen that we rely- 
chiefly on practice in reading to give perfection. It is in read- 
ing, as in music ; the ear is the great teacher, the voice is but 
the instrument. There are few good readers, precisely for the 
reason that there are but few good singers ; to wit, because few 
exercise the voice habitually and critically, either in reading or 
singing. 

Good reading and good singing are on all hands admitted to 
be useful and elegant accomplishments, and yet both are too 
much neglected by our youth. This neglect is partly attribu- 
table to their parents, who, in this, as in too many more important 
matters, fail to supervise their children as they should ; but 
chiefly is it due to the youth themselves, who, partly from false 
shame, but more from the false conceit that reading and singing 
are things of easy acquisition, postpone them until they find 
their mistake, and the truth of the old adage, that " as the twig 
is bent, the tree's inclined." The vocal organs, for want of 
use, will not, nay, cannot, play their parts. They have lost 
their flexibility, and the will can no more operate through them, 
as by use it might have done, than it can lift a palsied limb. 
Whereas by constant, habitual use, " nothing will be easier" 
than to make the vocal instrument, whether in reading or sing- 
ing, "discourse most eloquent music." 

It is a remarkable fact, that well-educated females, as a class, 
read with more beauty than males of equal education. The 
reason probably is, that they have an ear more delicately attuned 
to the soul-stirring melodies of sound. Hence they read as 
they speak, always ez-animd (from the heart). This fact 
should suggest to us a hint more valuable than all the rules of 
the most laboured treatise. We adopt it; and conclude by 
recommending to youth to take their earliest and most frequent 
lessons in reading from the lips of their well-educated mothers 
and sisters, or female friends. With such teachers, and with 
the Bible as the best text-book to begin with, correct and elegant 
reading will cease to be a task, and become a labour of love ; 
and like all such labours, be more easily achieved. Afterwards, 
this work may be read. 
1* 



CONTENTS. 



INTRODUCTORY LESSONS. 

Page 

I. On the Speaking of Speeches at Schools. — Walker. ... 13 

II. On the Acting of Plays at Schools. — Ibid 19 

III. Rules for Expressing with Propriety, the Principal Pas- 

sions and Humours, which occur in Reading or Public 

Speaking. — Burgh 22 

IV. Rules respecting Elocution. — Walker 25 

PART I.— LESSONS IN READING. 
SECTION I. 

I. — V. Select Sentences. — Art of Thinking 34 

VI. The Fox and the Goat.— Dodsley's Fables 38 

VII. The Fox and the Stork.— Ibid 39 

VIII. The Court of Death.— Ibid 39 

IX. The Partial Judge.— Ibid 40 

X. The Sick Lion, the Fox, and the Wolf— Ibid 40 

XL Dishonesty Punished. — Kane's Hints 41 

XII. The Picture.— Ibid 41 

XIII. The Two Bees.— Dodders Fables 41 

XIV. Beauty and Deformity. — PercivaVs Tales 42 

XV. Remarkable instance ot Friendship. — Art of Speaking. . 43 

XVI. Dionysius and Damocles. — Ibid 43 

XVII. Character of Cataline. — Sallust 44 

XVIII. Avarice and Luxury. — Spectator 45 

XIX. Hercules' Choice.— Tattler 46 

XX. Will Honeycomb's Spectator. — Spectator 48 

XXI. On Good Breeding.— Chesterfield 50 

XXII. Address to a Young Student. — Knox 53 

XXIII. The Folly of Pride.— Sidney Smith 55 

XXIV. Advantages of, and Motives to, Cheerfulness. — Spec- 

tator 56 

SECTION II. 

I. The Bad Reader.— PercivaVs Tales 58 

II. Respect due to Old Age. — Spectator 59 

III. Piety to God recommended to the Young. — Blair 60 

(vi) 



CONTENTS. Vll 

Page 

IV. Modesty and Docility.— Ibid 60 

V. Sincerity.— Ibid 61 

VI. Benevolence and Humanity. — Ibid 62 

VII. Industry and Application. — Ibid 63 

VIII. Proper Employment of Time. — Ibid 64 

IX. The True Patriot.— Art of Thinking 64 

X. On Contentment. — Spectator 65 

XI. Needle-work recommended to the Ladies. — Ibid 67 

XII. Horrors of War. — Chalmers 69 

XIII. On Pride.— Guardian 70 

XIV. Journal of the Life of Alexander Severus. — Gibbon. . . 72 

XV. Character of Julius Csesar. — Middleton 72 

XVI. On Mispent Time. — Guardian 73 

XVII. Character of Francis I. — Robertson 77 

XVIII. The Supper and Grace.— Sterne 79 

XIX. Rustic Felicity.— Ibid 81 

XX. House of Mourning. — Ibid 81 

SECTION m. 

I. The Honour and Advantage of a constant adherence to 

Truth.— PercivaVs Tales 83 

II. Impertinence in Discourse. — Theophrastus 83 

III.. Character of Addison as a Writer. — Johnson 84 

IV. Pleasure and Pain. — Spectator 85 

V. Sir Roger de Coverly's Family.— Ibid 86 

VI. The Folly of Inconsistent Expectations. — Aitken 88 

VII. Description of the Vale of Keswick, in Cumberland. — 

Brown 90 

VIII. Pity, an Allegory.— Aitken 93 

IX. Advantages of Commerce. — Spectator 94 

X. The State to which Switzerland was reduced by the In- 
vasion of the French. — Sidney Smith 96 

XI. On Public Speaking — Spectator 97 

XII. Advantages of History. — Hume 98 

XIII. Virtue.— Bulwer 100 

XIV. On the Immortality of the Soul. — Spectator 101 

XV. The Combat of the Horatii and the Curiatii. — Livy. . . . 102 

XVI. On the Power of Custom.— Spectator 105 

XVII. On Pedantry.— Mirror 106 

XVIII. The Journey of a Day — a Picture of Human Life. — 

Rambler 103 

SECTION rv. 

I. Description of the Amphitheatre of Titus. — Gibbon. ... Ill 

H. Reflections in Westminster Abbey. — Spectator 112 

III. The Character of Mary Queen of Scots. — Robertson. . . 114 

IV. The Character of Queen Elizabeth. — Hume 115 

V. Charles V.'s Resignation of his Dominions. — Robertson. 117 

VI. Insecurity of the World. — Chalmers 120 

VII. Importance of Virtue.— Price 121 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

Page 

VIII. Address to Art.— Harris 122 

IX. Flattery.— Theophrastus 123 

X. The Absent Man.— Spectator 124 

XI. The Monk.— Sterne 125 

XII. On the Head-dress of the Ladies. — Spectator 127 

XIII. On the Present and Future State.— Ibid 129 

XIV. Uncle Toby's Benevolence.—- Sterne 132 

XV. Power of Government. — Everett 132 

XVI. Story of the Siege of Calais.— Fool of Quality 133 

SECTION V. 

• 

I. On Grace in Writing. — Fitzborne's Letters 137 

II. On the Structure of Animals. — Spectator. 138 

III. On Natural and Fantastical Pleasures. — Guardian. . . . 140 

IV. The Folly and Madness of Ambition Illustrated.— World. 143 
V. Battle of Pharsalia and the Death of Pompey. — Gold- 
smith 146 

VI. Character of King- Alfred. — Hume 151 

VII. Awkwardness in Company. — Chesterfield 151 

VIII. Virtue Man's Highest Interest.— Harris 152 

IX. On the Pleasure arising from Objects of Sight. — -Spec- 
tator 153 

X. Liberty and Slavery. — Sterne 155 

XL The Cant of Criticism.— Ibid 156 

XII. Parallel between Pope and Dryden. — Johnson 157 

XIII. The Story of Le Fever.— Sterne 158 

SECTION VI. 

I. The Shepherd and the Philosopher. — Gay 165 

II. Ode to Leven Water. — Smollett 167 

III. Ode from the Nineteenth Psalm. — Spectator 167 

IV. Rural Charms. — Goldsmith 168 

V. The Painter who Pleased Nobody and Everybody. — Gay. 169 

VI. Diversity in the Human Character. — Pope 170 

VII. The Toilet.— Ibid. 172 

VIII. The Hermit— Parnell 172 

IX. On the Death of Mrs. Mason.— Mason 178 

X. Extract from the Temple of Fame. — Pope 178 

XL A Panegyric on Great Britain. — Thomson 180 

XII. Hymn to the Deity, on the Seasons of the Year. — Ibid. 182 

SECTION VII. 

I. The Chameleon.— Merrick 185 

II. On the Order of Nature.— Pope. 186 

III. Description of a Country Alehouse. — Goldsmith 188 

IV. Character of a Country Schoolmaster. — Ibid 188 

V. Story of Palemon and Lavinia. — Thomson 189 

VI. Celadon and Amelia.— Ibid 192 

VII. Description of Mab, Queen of the Fairies. — Shakspearc. 193 

VIII. On the Existence of a Deity.— Young 194 



CONTENTS. IX 

Page 

IX. Evening in Paradise described. — Milton 195 

X. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. — Gray 196 

XI. Thanatopsis.— Bryant 200 

XII. Scipio restoring the Captive Lady to her Lover. — 

Thomson 202 

XIII. Humorous Complaint to Dr. Arbuthnot of the Imperti- 

nence of Scribblers. — Pope 203 

XIV. Hymn to Adversity. — Gray 204 

XV. The Passions— An Ode.— Collins 206 



SECTION VIII. 

I. Lamentation for the Loss of Sight. — Milton 208 

II. L' Allegro, or the Merry Man. — Ibid. 209 

III. On the Pursuits of Mankind.— Pope 212 

IV. Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn. — Milton 213 

V. Parting of Hector and Andromache. — Homer. 215 

VI. Facetious History of John Gilpin. — Cowper 218 

VII. Procrastination Young 224 

III. The Creation of the World.— Milton '. 225 

IX. Overthrow of the Rebel Angels.— Ibid 226 

X. Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music. — Dryden. . . 227 



PART II. — LESSONS IN SPEAKING. 
SECTION I. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

I. On Truth and Integrity.— Tillotson 231 

II. On Doing as we would be Done unto. — Atterbury 233 

III. On Benevolence and Charity. — Steel 234 

IV. On Happiness Sterne 236 

V. On the Death of Christ.— Blair 239 

SECTION II. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE SENATE. 

I. Evils of Calumny and War. — Governeur Morris. 242 

II. Speech of the Earl of Chesterfield. 243 

III. Extract from Mr. Shiel's Speech, in Parliament, on Par- 

liamentary Reform 247 

IV. Extract from Patrick Henry's Speech on the Expediency 

of adopting the Federal Constitution 249 

V. Speech of Lord Mansfield 250 

VI. The Peroration of Mr. Governeur Morris's Speech on the 

Judiciary Establishment 254 

VII. John Randolph's Speech on the Right of Suffrage 255 

VIII. Power to be valued only as it confers Benefits on Man- 
kind. — Brougham < . 256 



X CONTENTS. 

SECTION III. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 

Page 

I. Mr. Curran's Defence of Orr 257 

II. Political Geometry.— Stanard. 258 

III. The Statesman.— Ibid 259 

IV. Pleadings of Cicero against Verres. 260 

V. The Peroration of Mr. Wirt's Speech in behalf of the 

Cherokee Nation 203 

VI. Cicero for Milo 265 

SECTION IV. 

SPEECHES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 

I. Romulus to the People of Rome, after building the City. 

—Hooke 269 

II. Hannibal to Scipio Africanus. — Ibid. 270 

III. Scipio's Reply.— Ibid 271 

IV. Attachment of the Indians to the Soil. — Everett 272 

V. Importance of the Union. — Webster 273 

VI. Calisthenes' Reproof of Cleon's Flattery to Alexander. 

— Q. Curtius 274 

VII. Caius Marius to the Romans. — Hooke 275 

VIII. Publius Scipio to the Roman Army. — Ibid 277 

IX. Hannibal to the Carthaginian Army. — Ibid. 279 

X. Public Faith.— Fisher Ames 281 

XI. Adherbal to the Roman Senators. — Sallust 283 

XII. The right of the Americans to take up Arms. — Chatham. 235 

XIII. The right of Britain to Tax America.— Burke 287 

XIV. Canuleius to the Roman Consuls. — Hooke 288 

XV. Junius Brutus over the dead body of Lucretia. — Ibid. . . 290 

XVI. Extract from the Speech of Demosthenes for the Crown. 

— Edinburgh Review. 291 

XVII. Extract from the Oration of iEschines against Demos- 
thenes 294 

XVIII. Speech of Lord Chatham, in reply to Lord Suffolk, on 

the employment of Indians in the American War. . . . 295 

XIX. Demosthenes to the Athenians. — Lansdown 296 

XX. British Influence. — Randolph 300 

XXI. Jupiter to the Inferior Deities. — Homer 302 

XXII. ^Eneas to Queen Dido.— Virgil 302 

XXIII. Moloch to the Infernal Powers.— Milton 304 

XXIV. Speech of Belial, advising Peace.— Ibid , 306 

SECTION V. 

DRAMATIC PIECES. 
I. — DIALOGUES. 

I. Belcour and Stock well. — West Indian 307 

II. Lady Townly and Lady Grace.— Provoked Husband. . . 309 



CONTENTS. XI 

Page 

III. Priuli and Jaffier. — Venice Preserved. 313 

IV. Boniface and Aim well. — Beaux Stratagem 315 

V. Lovegold and Lappet. — Miser 317 

VI. Cardinal Wolsey and Cromwell— Henry VIII 320 

VII. Sir Charles and Lady Racket. — Three Weeks after 

Marriage 322 

VIII. Brutus and Cassius. — Shakspeare's Julius Caesar 325 

II. — SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES. 

I. Hamlet's Advice to the Players. — Tragedy of Hamlet. 328 
II. Rolla's Address to the Peruvians. — Sheridan 329 

III. Douglas' Account of Himself. — Tragedy of Douglas... 330 

IV. Douglas' Account of the Hermit.— Ibid. 330 

• V. Sempronius' Speech for War — Tragedy of Cato 331 

VI. Lucius' Speech for Peace. — Ibid 332 

VIL Hotspur's Account of the Fop.— 1 Henry IV. 332 

VIII. Hotspur's Soliloquy on the Contents of a Letter. — Ibid. 333 
IX. Othello's Apology for his Marriage.— Tragedy of Othello. 334 

X. Henry IV.'s Soliloquy on Sleep.— 2 Henry IV. 335 

XI. Bobadil's Method of Defeating an Army. — Every Man 

in His Humour 336 

XII. Soliloquy of Hamlet's Uncle on the Murder of his Bro- 
ther. — Tragedy of Hamlet 336 

XIII. Soliloquy of Hamlet on Death.— Ibid 337 

XIV. FalstafFs Encomiums on Sack.— 2 Henry IV. 338 

XV. Prologue to the Tragedy of Cato. — Pope 339 

XVI. Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul. — Tra- 
gedy of Cato 340 

XVII. Lady Randolph's Soliloquy.— Tragedy of Douglas 340 

XVIII. Speech of Henry V. at the Siege of Harfleur.— Shaks- 

peare's Henry V.. 341 

XIX. Speech of Henry V. before the Battle of Agincourt. — 

Ibid 342 

XX. Soliloquy of Dick the Apprentice. — Farce of the Ap- 
prentice 343 

XXI. Cassius instigating Brutus to join the Conspiracy against 

Caesar. — Tragedy of Julius Caesar 343 

XXII. Brutus' Harangue on the Death of Csesar. — Ibid. ..... 345 

XXIII. Antony's Oration over Caesar's Body. — Ibid 345 

XXIV. Falstaff's Soliloquy on Honour.— Henry IV. 348 

XXV. Part of Richard III.'s Soliloquy the night preceding the 

Battle of Bosworth.— Tragedy of Richard III 348 

XXVI. The World compared to a Stage.— As You Like It 349 

Appendix. — Containing Concise Lessons on a New Plan 350 



TABLE OF RULES, 

REFERRED TO IN THE EDITOR'S PREFACE, 



1st. Read mentally any selection of this work (suitable for the 

reader), until the subject and sentiments of the piece are fully 

understood and appreciated 
2d. Ask some friend, known to be a good reader, to read the same 

piece to you, in his best style. 
3d. Then read, and re-read aloud, the same piece in his hearing, 

soliciting his correction. 
4th. Read and re-read it to yourself aloud, until you become satisfied, 

by the ear, that you have done it justice. 
Gth. Make reading parties of a few young friends, and obtain, when 

practicable, the presence of some distinguished adult reader, as 

at once teacher and critic. 
6th. Read standing, shoulders well squared, and book well elevated. 
7th. This process to be repeated daily, for half an hour, or an hour, 

as convenience may allow. 



(xii) 



ELEMENTS OF GESTURE. 



SECTION I. 
On the Speaking of Speeches at Schools. 

Elocution has, for some years past, been an object of atten- 
tion in the most respectable schools in this country. A laudable 
ambition of instructing youth, in the pronunciation and delivery 
of their native language, has made English speeches a very 
conspicuous part of those exhibitions of oratory, which do our 
seminaries of learning so much credit. 

This attention to English pronunciation has induced several 
ingenious men to compile exercises in elocution, for the use of 
schools, which have answered very useful purposes : but none, 
so far as I have seen, have attempted to give us a regular system 
of gesture, suited to the wants and capacities of school-boys. 
Indeed, the exact adaptation of the action to the word, and the 
word to the action, as Shakspeare calls it, is the most difficult 
part of delivery, and, therefore, can never be taught perfectly to 
children ; to say nothing of distracting their attention with two 
very difficult things at the same time. But that boys should 
stand motionless while they are pronouncing the most impas- 
sionate language, is extremely absurd and unnatural ; and that 
they should sprawl into an awkward, ungain, and desultory 
action, is still more offensive and disgusting. What, then, 
remains, but that such a general style of action be adopted, as 
shall be easily conceived and easily executed ; which, though 
not expressive of any particular passion, shall not be inconsistent 
with the expression of any passion ; which shall always keep 
the body in a graceful position, and shall so vary its motions, at 
proper intervals, as to see the subject operating on the speaker, 
and not the speaker on the subject. This, it will be confessed, 
is a great desideratum ; and an attempt to this, is the principal 
object of the present publication. 

2 (13) 



14 ELEMENTS 

Plate I. represents the attitude in which a boy should always 
place himself, when he begins to speak. He should rest the 
whole weight of his body on the right leg ; the other just touch- 
ing the ground, at the distance at which it would naturally fall, 
if lifted up to show that the body does not bear upon it. The 
knees should be straight and braced, and the body, though per- 
fectly straight, not perpendicular, but inclining as far to the right 
as a firm position on the right leg will permit. The • right arm 
must then be held out, with the palm open, the fingers straight 
and close, the thumb almost as distant from them as it will go ; 
and the flat of the hand neither horizontal nor vertical, but 
exactly between both. 

When the pupil has pronounced one sentence in the position 
thus described, the hand, as if lifeless, must drop down to the 
side, the very moment the last accented word is pronounced ; 
and the body, without altering the place of the feet, poise itself 
on the left leg, while the left hand raises itself into exactly the 
same position as the right was before, and continues in this 
position till the end of the next sentence, when it drops down on 
the side as if dead ; and the body, poising itself on the right leg 
as before, continues with the right arm extended, till the end of 
the succeeding sentence ; and so on, from right to left, and from 
left to right, alternately, till the speech is ended. 

Great care must be taken that the pupil end one sentence 
completely before he begin another. He must let the arm drop 
to the side, and continue for a moment in that posture in which 
he concluded, before he poises his body on the other leg, and 
raises the other arm into the diagonal position before described ; 
both which should be done before he begins to pronounce the 
next sentence. Care must also be taken in shifting the body 
from one leg to the other, that the feet do not alter their distance. 
In altering the position of the body, the feet will necessarily alter 
their position a little, but this change must be made by turning 
the toes in a somewhat different direction, without suffering them 
to shift their ground. The heels, in this transition, change their 
place, but not the toes. The toes may be considered as pivots, 
on which the body turns from side to side. 

If the pupil's knees are not well formed, or incline inwards, 
he must be taught to keep his legs at as great a distance as pos- 
sible, and to incline his body so much to that side on which the 
arm is extended, as to oblige him to rest the opposite leg upon 
the toe ; and this will, in a great measure, hide the defect of his 
make. In the same manner, if the arm be too long, or the elbow 
incline inwards, it will be proper to make him turn the palm of 
his hand downwards, so as to make it perfectly horizontal. 
This will infallibly incline the elbow outwards, and prevent the 
worst position the arm can possibly fall into ; "which is, that of 



OF GESTURE, 



15 



PLATE I 




16 ELEMENTS 

inclining the elbow to the body. This position of the hand so 
necessarily keeps the elbow out, that it would not be improper 
to make the pupil sometimes practise it, though he may have no 
defect in his make; as an occasional alteration of the former 
position to this may often be necessary, both for the sake of just- 
ness and variety. These two last positions of the legs and arms 
are described in Plate II. 

When the pupil has got the habit of holding his hand and arm 
properly, he may be taught to move it. In this motion he must 
be careful to keep the arm from the body. He must neither 
draw the elbow backwards, nor suffer it to approach to the side ; 
but while the hand and lower joint of the arm are curving 
towards the shoulder, the whole arm, with the elbow, forming 
nearly an angle of a square, should move upwards from the 
shoulder, in the same position as when gracefully taking off the 
hat ; that is, with the elbow extending from the side, and the 
upper joint of the arm nearly on a line with the shoulder, and 
forming an angle of a square with the body (See Plate III.); this 
motion of the arm will naturally bring the hand, with the palm 
downwards, into a horizontal position, and when it approaches 
to the head, the arm should, with a jerk, be suddenly straightened 
into its first position, at the very moment the emphatical word is 
pronounced. This coincidence of the hand and voice will greatly 
enforce the pronunciation ; and if they keep time, they will be 
in tune, as it were, to each other ; and to force and energy, add 
harmony and variety. 

As this motion of the arm is somewhat complicated, and may 
be found difficult to execute, it would be advisable to let the 
pupil at first speak without any motion of the arm at all. After 
some time, he will naturally fall into a small curvature of the 
elbow, to beat time, as it were, to the emphatic word ; and if, in 
doing this, he is constantly urged to raise the elbow, and to keep 
it at a distance from the body, the action of the arm will natu- 
rally grow up into that we have just described. So the diagonal 
position of the arm, though the most graceful and easy when the 
body is at rest, may be too difficult for boys to fall into at first ; 
and therefore it may be necessary, in order to avoid the worst 
extreme, for some time, to make them extend the arm as far 
from the body as they can, in a somewhat similar direction, but 
higher from the ground, and inclining more to the back. Great 
care must be taken to keep the hand open, and the thumb at 
some distance from the fingers ; and particular attention must be 
paid to keeping the hand in an exact line with the lower part of 
the arm, so as not to bend at the wrist either when it is held out, 
without motion, or when it gives the emphatic stroke. And, 
above all, the body must be kept in a straight line with the leg 
on which it bears, and not suffered to bend to the opposite side. 



OF GESTURE 



17 



PLATE II 




18 



ELEMENTS 



PLATE III, 




OF GESTURE. 19 

SECTION II. 
On the Acting of Plays at School. 

Though the acting of plays at schools has been universally 
supposed a very useful practice, it has of late years been much 
laid aside. But, to waive every objection from prudence or 
morality, it may be confidently affirmed, that the acting of a play 
is not so conducive to improvement in elocution, as the speaking 
of single speeches. 

It is plain, open, distinct, and forcible pronunciation, which 
school-boys should aim at; and not that quick transition from 
one passion to another, that archness of look, and ^Jiat jeu de 
theatre, as it is called, so essential to a tolerable dramatic exhibi- 
tion, and which actors themselves can scarcely attain. In short, 
it is speaking, rather than acting, which school-boys should be 
taught ; while the performance of plays is calculated to teach 
them acting, rather than speaking. 

But there is a contrary extreme, into which many teachers 
are apt to run, and chiefly those who are incapable of speaking 
themselves ; and that is, to condemn every thing which is vehe- 
ment and forcible as theatrical, ft is an old trick, to depreciate 
what we cannot attain : and calling a spirited pronunciation 
theatrical, is but an artful method of hiding an utter inability of 
speaking with force and energy. But, though school-boys ought 
not to be taught those nice touches which form the greatest diffi- 
culties in the profession of an actor, they should not be too much 
restrained from the exertion of voice, so necessary to strengthen- 
ing the organs of sound, because they may sometimes be too 
loud and vociferous. Perhaps nine out of ten, instead of too 
much confidence, and too violent a manner of speaking, which 
these teachers seem so much to dread, have, as Dr. Johnson 
calls it, a frigid equality, a stupid languor, and a torpid apathy. 
These must be roused by something strong and excessive, or 
they will never rise even to mediocrity ; while the few who have 
a tendency to rant are very easily reclaimed ; and ought to be 
treated, in pronunciation and action, as Quintilian advises us to 
do in composition ; that is, we should rather allow of an exuber- 
ance, than, by too much correctness, check the vigor and luxu- 
riancy of nature. 

Though school-boys, therefore, ought not to be taught the 
fineness of acting, they should, as much as possible, be accus- 
tomed to speak such speeches as require a full, open, animated 
pronunciation ; for which purpose, they should be confined 
chiefly to orations, odes, and such single speeches of plays as 



20 ELEMENTS 

are in the declamatory and vehement style. But as there are 
many scenes of plays which are justly reckoned among the 
finest compositions in the language, some of these may be 
adopted among the upper class of boys, and those, more particu- 
larly, who have the best deportments ; for action, in scenes, will 
be found much more difficult than in single speeches. And 
here it will be necessary to give some additional instructions 
respecting action. When a scene, therefore, is represented, it is 
necessary that the two personages who speak should form a sort 
of picture, and place themselves in a position agreeable to the 
laws of perspective. In order to do this, it will be necessary 
that each of them should stand obliquely, and chiefly make use 
of one hand. That is, supposing the stage or platform where 
they stand to be quadrangle, each speaker should, respectively, 
face the copper of it next to the audience ; and use that hand, 
and rest upon that leg, which is next to the person he speaks to, 
and which is farthest from the audience. This disposition is 
absolutely necessary, to form* any thing like a picturesque group- 
ing of objects ; and without it, that is, if both speakers use the 
right hand, and stand exactly fronting each other, the impro- 
priety will be palpable, and the spectacle disgusting. 

It need scarcely be noted, that if the speaker in a scene uses 
that hand which is next to the audience, he ought likewise to 
poise his body upon the same leg. This is almost an invariable 
rule in action ; the hand should act on that side only on which 
the body bears. Good actors and speakers may sometimes de- 
part from this rule, but such only will know when to do it with 
propriety. 

Occasion may be taken in the course of the scene to change 
sides. One speaker, at the end of an impassioned speech, may 
cross over to the place of the other, while the latter, at the same 
moment, crosses over to the place of the former. This, however, 
must be done with great care, and so as to keep the back from 
being turned to the audience. But if this transition be per- 
formed adroitly, it will have a very good effect, in varying the 
position of the speakers, and giving each an opportunity of using 
his right hand — the most favourable to grace and expression. 
And if, from so humble a scene as the school, we may be per- 
mitted to raise our observations to the senate, it might be hinted 
that gentlemen on each side of the house, while addressing the 
chair, can, with grace and propriety, only make use of one 
hand ; namely, that which is next to the speaker; and it may be 
observed, in passing, that to all the other advantages of speaking, 
which are supposed to belong to one side of the house, may be 
added — the graceful use of the right hand. 

The better to conceive the position of two speakers in a scene, 
a Plate (IV.) is given, representing their respective attitudes ; 



OF GESTURE. 



21 



PLATE IV. 




22 ELEMENTS 

and it must be carefully noted, that when they are not speaking, 
the arms must hang in their natural place, by the sides : unless 
what is spoken by one, is of such importance as to excite agita- 
tion and surprise in the other. But if we should be sparing of 
gesture at all times, we should be more particularly so when we 
are not speaking. 

There are, indeed, some masters who are against teaching 
boys any action at all, and are for leaving them in this point 
entirely to nature. Improved and beautiful nature is the object 
of the painter's pencil, the poet's pen, and the rhetorician's 
action, and not that sordid and common nature which is perfectly 
rude and uncultivated. Nature directs us to art, and art selects 
and polishes the beauties of nature. It is not sufficient for an 
orator, says Quintilian, that he is a man : he must be an im- 
proved and cultivated man ; he must be a man, favoured by 
nature and fashioned by art. 

But the necessity of adopting some method of teaching action 
is too evident to need proof. If boys are left to themselves, they 
will, in all probability, fall into very wild and ungraceful action, 
which, when once formed into habit, can scarcely ever be cor- 
rected. Giving them, therefore, a general outline of good action, 
must be of the utmost consequence to their progress and im- 
provement in pronunciation. 

The great use, therefore, of a system of action like the pre- 
sent, is, that a boy will never be embarrassed, for want of know- 
ing what to do with his legs and arms ; nor will he bestow that 
attention on his action, which ought to be directed to his pronun- 
ciation ; he will always be in a position which will not disgrace 
his figure, and when this gesture is easy to him, it may serve as 
a groundwork to something more perfect : he may either by his 
own genius or his master's instructions, build some other action 
upon it, which may, in time, give it additional force and variety. 

It may not be useless to observe, that boys should be classed 
in this, as in every other kind of instruction, according to their 
abilities. This will excite emulation, and give the teacher an 
opportunity of ranking them according to their merit. 



SECTION III. 

Rules for expressing, with propriety, the principal Passions 
and Humours, which occur in Reading or public Speaking. 

Every part of the. human frame contributes to express the 
passions and emotions of the mind, and to show in general its 
present state. The head is sometimes erected, sometimes hung 



OF GESTURE. 23 

down, sometimes drawn suddenly back with an air of disdain, 
sometimes shows by a nod a particular person, or object : gives 
assent or denial, by different motions ; threatens by one sort of 
movement, approves by another, and expresses suspicion by a 
third. • 

The arms are sometimes both thrown out, sometimes the right 
alone. Sometimes they are lifted up as high as the face, to 
express wonder ; sometimes held out before the breast, to show 
fear ; spread forth with the hands open to express desire or 
affection ; the hands clapped in surprise, and in sudden joy and 
grief; the right hand clenched, and the arms brandished, to 
threaten; the two arms set akimbo, to look big, and express 
contempt or courage. With the hands we solicit, we refuse, we 
promise, we threaten, we dismiss, we invite, we entreat, we ex- 
press aversion, fear, doubting, denial, asking, affirmation, nega- 
tion, joy, grief, confession, penitence. With the hands we 
describe and point out all circumstances of time, place, and 
manner of what we relate ; we excite the passions of others, and 
soothe them ; we approve and disapprove, permit or prohibit, 
admire or despise. The hands serve us instead of many sorts of 
words, and where the language of the tongue is unknown, that 
of the hands is understood, being universal, and common to all 
nations. 

The legs advance, or retreat, to express desire or aversion, 
love or hatred, courage or fear ; and produce exultation, or leap- 
ing in sudden joy ; and the stamping of the foot expresses ear- 
nestness, anger and threatening. 

Especially the face, being furnished with a variety of muscles, 
does more in expressing the passions of the mind than the whole 
human frame besides. The change of colour (in white people) 
shows, by turns, anger by redness, and sometimes by paleness, 
fear likewise by paleness, and shame by blushing. Every fea- 
ture contributes its part. The mouth open, shows one state of 
mind ; shut, another ; the gnashing of the teeth, another. The 
forehead smooth, eye-brows arched and easy, show tranquillity 
or joy. Mirth opens the mouth towards the ears, crisps the 
nose, half shuts the eyes, and sometimes fills them with tears. 
The front wrinkled into frowns, and the eye-brows overhanging 
the eyes, like clouds, fraught with tempest, show a mind agitated 
with fury. Above all, the eye shows the very spirit in a visible 
form. In every different state of mind, it assumes a different 
appearance. Joy brightens and opens it. Grief half closes, and 
drowns it in tears. Hatred and anger flash from it like light- 
ning. Love darts from it in glances, like the orient beam. Jeal- 
ousy and squinting envy dart their contagious blasts from the 
eye. And devotion raises it to the skies, as if the soul of the 
holy man were going to take its flight to heaven. 



24 ELEMENTS OF GESTURE. 

The force of attitude and looks alone appears in a wondrously 
striking manner, in the works of the painter and statuary ; who 
have the delicate art of making the flat canvass and rocky marble 
utter every passion of the human mind, and touch the sou] of the 
spectator, as if the picture, or statue, spoke the pathetic language 
of Shakspeare. It is no wonder then, that masterly action, joined 
with powerful elocution, should be irresistible. And the variety 
of expression, by looks and gestures, is so great, that, as is well 
known, a whole play can be represented without a word spoken. 
It is to be remembered that the action, in expressing the 
various humours and passions, is to be suited to the age, sex, 
condition, and circumstances of the character. Violent anger, 
or rage, for example, is to be expressed with great agitation ; 
but the rage of an infirm old man, of a woman, and of a youth, 
are all different from one another, and from that of a man in the 
flower of his age, as every speaker's discretion will suggest. A 
hero may show fear or sensibility of pain, but not in the same 
manner as a girl would express those sensations. Grief may be 
expressed by a person reading a melancholy story, or a descrip- 
tion, in a room. It may be acted upon the stage. It may be 
dwelt upon by the pleader at the bar ; or it may have a place In 
a sermon. The passion is still grief. But the manner of ex- 
pressing it will be different to each of the speakers, if they have 
judgment. 

A correct speaker does not make a movement of limb or 
feature for which he has not a reason. If he addresses heaven, 
he looks upwards. If he speaks to his fellow-creatures, he looks 
round upon them. The spirit of what he says, or is said to him, 
appears in his look. If. he expresses amazement, or would 
excite it, he lifts up his hands and eyes. If he invites to virtue 
and happiness, he spreads his arms, and looks benevolent. If 
he threatens the vengeance of heaven against vice, he bends his 
eyebrows into wrath, and menaces with his arm and counte- 
nance. He does not needlessly saw the aif with his arm, nor 
stab himself with his finger. He does not clap his right hand 
upon his breast, unless he has occasion to speak of himself, or to 
introduce conscience, or somewhat sentimental. He does not 
start back, unless he wants to express horror or aversion. He 
does not come forward, but when he has occasion to solicit. He 
does not raise his voice, but to express somewhat peculiarly 
ernphatical. He does not lower it, but to contrast the raising 
of it. His eyes, by turns, according to the humour of the matter 
he has to express, sparkle fury ; brighten into joy ; glance dis- 
dain ; melt into grief ; frown disgust and hatred; languish into 
love ; or glare distraction. 



ESSAY ON ELOCUTION. 25 

RULES RESPECTING ELOCUTION. 

[extracted from walker's speaker.] 

RULE I. 

Let your Articulation be Distinct and Deliberate. 

I A good articulation consists in giving a clear and fall utter- 
ance to the several simple and complex sounds. The nature of 
these sounds, therefore, ought to be well understood ; and much 
pains should be taken to discover and correct those faults in 
articulation which, though often ascribed to some defects in the 
organs of speech, are generally the consequence of inattention or 
bad example. Many of these respect the sounding of the con- 
sonants. Some cannot pronounce the letter /, and others the 
simple sounds r, s, th, sh : others generally omit the aspirate h. 
These faults may be corrected by reading sentences so contrived 
as often to repeat the faulty sounds, and by guarding against 
them in familiar conversation. 

Other defects in articulation regard the complex sounds, and 
consist in a confused and cluttering pronunciation of words. 
The most effectual methods of conquering this habit are, to read 
aloud passages chosen for the purpose, (such, for instance, as 
abound with long and unusual words, or in which many short 
syllables come together,) and to read, at certain stated times, 
much slower than the sense and just speaking would require. 
Almost all persons, who have not studied the art of speaking, 
have a habit of uttering their words so rapidly, that this latter 
exercise ought generally to be made use of for a considerable 
time at first ; for where there is a uniformly rapid utterance, it 
is absolutely impossible that there should be strong emphasis, 
natural tones, or any just elocution. 

Aim at nothing higher, till you can read distinctly and delibe- 
rately. 

Learn to speak slow ; all other graces 

Will follow in their proper places. 

RULE II. 

Let your Pronunciation be Bold and Forcible. 

An insipid flatness and languor is almost the universal fault in 
reading, and even public speakers often suffer their words to drop 
from their lips with such a faint and feeble utterance, that they 



26 ANESSAYON 

appear neither to understand or feel what they say themselves, 
nor to have any desire that it should be understood or felt by 
their audience. This is a fundamental fault ; a speaker without 
energy is a lifeless statue. 

In order to acquire a forcible manner of pronouncing your 
words, inure yourself, while reading, to draw in as much air as 
your lungs can contain with ease, and to expel it with vehe- 
mence, in uttering those sounds which require an emphatical 
pronunciation ; read aloud in the open air, and with all the 
exertion you can command; preserve your body in an erect 
attitude while you are speaking ; let all the consonant sounds be 
expressed with a full impulse or percussion of the breath, and a 
forcible action of the organs employed in forming them ; and let 
all the vowel sounds have a full and bold utterance. Practise 
these rules with perseverance, till you have acquired strength 
and energy of speech. 

But in observing this rule, beware of running into the extreme 
of vociferation. We find this fault chiefly among those who, in 
contempt and despite of all rule and propriety, are determined to 
command the attention of the vulgar. These are the speakers 
who, in Shakspeare's phrase, "offend the judicious hearer to the 
soul, by tearing a passion to rags, to very tatters, to split the ears 
of the groundlings." Cicero compares such speakers to cripples 
who get on horseback because they cannot walk ; they bellow 
because they cannot speak. 

RULE III. 

Acquire a Compass and Variety in the Height of your Voice. 

The monotony so much complained of in public speakers, is 
chiefly owing to the neglect of this rule. They generally con- 
tent themselves with one certain key, which they employ on all 
occasions, and on every subject ; or if they attempt variety, it is 
only in proportion to the number of their hearers, and the extent 
of the places in which they speak; imagining that speaking in 
a high key is the same thing as speaking loui ; and not observ- 
ing that whether a speaker shall be heard or not, depends more 
upon the distinctness and force with which he utters his words, 
than upon the height at which he pitches his voice. 

But it is an essential qualification of a good speaker to be able 
to alter the height, as well as the strength and the tone of his 
voice, as occasion requires. Different species of speaking require 
different heights of voice. Nature instructs us to relate a story, 
to support an argument, to command a servant, to utter exclama- 
tions of anger or rage, and to pour forth lamentations and sor- 
rows, not only with different tones, but different elevations of 
voice. Men at different a^es of life, and in different situations, 



ELOCUTION. 27 

speak in very different keys. The vagrant, when he begs ; the 
soldier, when he gives the word of command; the watchman, 
when he announces the hour of the night ; the sovereign, when 
he issues his edict ; the senator, when he harangues ; the lover, 
when he whispers his tender tale ; do not differ more in the 
tones which they use than in the key in which they speak. 
Reading and speaking therefore, in which all the variations of 
expression in real life are copied, must have continued variations 
in the height of the voice. 

To acquire the power of changing the key on which you 
speak at pleasure, accustom yourself to pitch your voice in dif- 
ferent keys, from the lowest to the highest notes you command. 
Many of those would neither be proper nor agreeable in speak- 
ing ; but the exercise will give you such a command of voice as 
is scarcely to be acquired by any other method. Having repeated 
the experiment till you can speak with ease at several heights 
of the voice, read as exercises on this rule such compositions as 
have a variety of speakers, or such as relate dialogues, observing 
the height of voice which is proper to each, and endeavouring to 
change them as nature directs. 

In the same composition there may be frequent occasions to 
alter the height of the voice in passing from one part to another, 
without any change of person. Shakspeare's "All the world's a 
stage," &c, and his description of the queen of the fairies, afford 
examples of this. Indeed, every sentence which is read or 
spoken will admit of different elevations of the voice in different 
parts of it ; and on this chiefly, perhaps entirely, depends the 
melody of pronunciation. 

RULE IV. 

Pronounce your Words ivith Propriety and Elegance. 

It is not easy, indeed, to fix upon any standard by which the 
propriety of pronunciation is to be determined. Mere men of 
learning, in attempting to make the etymology of words the rule 
of pronunciation, often pronounce words in a manner which 
brings upon them the charge of affectation and pedantry. Mere 
men of the world, notwithstanding all their politeness, often 
retain so much of their provincial dialect, or commit such errors 
both in speaking and writing, as to exclude them from the 
honour of being the standard of accurate pronunciation. We 
should, perhaps, look for this standard only among those who 
unite these two characters, and with the correctness and precision 
of true learning combine the ease and elegance of genteel life. 
An attention to such models, and a free intercourse with the 
polite world, are the best guards against the peculiarities and 
vulgarisms of provincial dialects, Those which respect the pro- 



28 AN ESSAY ON 

nunciation of words are innumerable. Some of the principal of 
them are — omitting the aspirate h where it ought to be used, 
and inserting it where there should be none ; confounding and 
interchanging the v and w ; pronouncing the diphthong ou like 
au or like oo, and the vowel i like oi or e ; and cluttering many- 
consonants together without regarding the vowels. These faults, 
and all others of the same nature, must be corrected in the pro- 
nunciation of a gentleman, who is supposed to have seen too 
much of the world, to retain the peculiarities of the district in 
which he was born. 

RULE V. 

Pronounce every Word consisting of more than one Syllable 
with its proper Accent, 

There is a necessity for this direction, because many speakers 
have affected an unusual and pedantic mode of accenting words, 
laying it down as a rule that the accent should be cast as far 
backwards as possible ; a rule which has no foundation in the 
construction of the English language, or in the laws of harmony. 
In accenting words, the general custom and a good ear are the 
best guides : only it may be observed that accent should be 
regulated, not by any arbitrary rules of quantity, or by the false 
idea that there are only two lengths in syllables, and that two 
short syllables are always equal to one long, but by the number 
and nature of the simple sounds. 

RULE VI. 

In every Sentence, distinguish the more Significant Words by 
a natural, forcible, and varied Emphasis. 

Emphasis points out the precise meaning of a sentence, shows 
in what manner one idea is connected with and rises out of 
another, marks the several clauses of a sentence, gives to every 
part its proper sound, and thus conveys to the mind of the reader 
the full import of the whole. It is in the power of emphasis to 
make long and complex sentences appear intelligible and per- 
spicuous. But for this purpose it is necessary that the reader 
should be perfectly acquainted with the exact construction and 
full meaning of every sentence which he recites. Without this 
it is impossible to give those inflections and variations to the 
voice which nature requires ; and it is for want of this previous 
study, more perhaps than from any other cause, that we so often 
hear persons read with an improper emphasis, or with no em- 
phasis at all, that is, with a stupid monotony. Much study and 
pains are necessary in acquiring the habit of just and forcible 
pronunciation ; and it can only be the effect of close attention 



ELOCUTION. *29 

and long practice, to be able with a mere glance of the eye, to 
read any piece with good emphasis and good discretion. 

It is another office of emphasis, to express the opposition be- 
tween the several parts of a sentence, where the style is pointed 
and antithetical. Pope's Essay on Man, and his Moral Essays 
and the Proverbs of Solomon, will furnish many proper exercises 
in this species of speaking. In some sentences the antithesis is 
double, and even treble ; these must be expressed in reading, by 
a very distinct emphasis on each part of the opposition. The 
following instances are of this kind : 

Anger may glance into the breast of a wise man ; but rests 
only in the bosom of fools. 

An angry man who suppresses his passion, thinks worse than 
he speaks ; and an angry man that will chide, speaks worse 
than he thinks. 

Better reign in hell, than serve in heaven. 

He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
She brought an angel down. 

Emphasis likewise serves to express some particular meaning 
not immediately arising from the words, but depending upon 
the intention of the speaker, or some incidental circumstance. 
The following short sentence may have three different meanings, 
according to the different places of the emphasis :-— Do you in- 
tend to go to London this summer? 

In order to acquire a habit of speaking with a just and forcible 
emphasis, nothing more is necessary than previously to study 
the construction, meaning, and spirit of every sentence, and to 
adhere as nearly as possible to the manner in which we distin- 
guish one word from another in conversation ; for in familiar 
discourse we scarce ever fail to express ourselves emphatically, 
or place the emphasis improperly. With respect to artificial 
helps, such as distinguishing words or clauses of sentences by 
particular characters or marks, I believe it will always be found, 
upon trial, that they mislead instead of assist the reader, by not 
leaving him at full liberty to follow his own understanding and 
feeling. 

The most common faults respecting emphasis are laying so 
strong an emphasis on one word as to leave no power of giving 
a particular force to other words, which, though not equally, 
are in a certain degree emphatical ; and placing the greatest 
stress on conjunctive particles, and other words of secondary im- 
portance. These faults are strongly characterized in Church- 
hill's censure of Mossop. 

With studied improprieties of speech 

He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach, 

3* 



30 ANESSAYON 

To epithets allots emphatic state, 

Whilst principles, ungraced, like lacquies wait ; 

In ways first trodden by himself excels, 

And stands alone in undeclinables ; 

Conjunction, preposition, adverb, join 

To stamp new vigour on the nervous line. 

In monosyllables his thunders roll, 

He, she, it, and, we, te, THEi, fright the soul. 

Emphasis is often destroyed by an injudicious attempt to read 
melodiously. Agreeable inflections and easy variations of the 
voice, as far as they arise from, or are consistent with just 
speaking, are worthy of attention. But to substitute one un- 
meaning tone in the room of all the proprieties and graces of 
good elocution, and then to applaud this manner, under the ap- 
pellation of musical speaking, can only be the effect of great 
ignorance and inattention, or of a depraved taste. If public 
speaking must be musical, let the words be set to music in reci- 
tative, that these melodious speakers may no longer lie open to 
the sarcasm : Do you read or sing? If you sing, you sing 
very ill. Seriously, it is much to be wondered at, that this kind 
of reading, which has so little merit, considered as music, and 
none at all, considered as speaking, should be so studiously prac- 
tised by many speakers, and so much admired by many hearers. 
Can a method of reading, which is^o entirely different from the 
usual manner of conversation, be natural and right ? Is it pos- 
sible that all the varieties of sentiment which a public speaker 
has occasion to introduce, should be properly expressed by one 
melodious tone and cadence, employed alike on all occasions, 
and for all purposes 1 

RULE VII. 

Acquire a just Variety of Pause and Cadence. 

One of the worst faults a speaker can have, is to make no 
other pauses than what he finds barely necessary for breathing. 
I know of nothing that such a speaker can so properly be com- 
pared to, as an alarm bell, which, when once set agoing, clatters 
on till the weight that moves it is run down. Without pauses, 
the sense must always appear confused and obscure, and often 
be misunderstood ; and the spirit and energy of the piece must 
be wholly lost. 

In executing this part of the office of a speaker, it will by no 
means be sufficient to attend to the points used in printing ; for 
these are far from marking all the pauses which ought to be 
made in speaking. A mechanical attention to these resting 
places has perhaps been one chief cause of monotony, by leading 
the reader to a uniform cadence at every full period. The use 



ELOCUTION. 31 

of points is to assist the reader in discerning the grammatical 
construction, not to direct his pronunciation. In reading, it may 
often be proper to make a pause where the printer has made 
none. Nay, it is very allowable for the sake of pointing out the 
sense more strongly, preparing the audience for what is to fol- 
low, or enabling the speaker to alter the tone or height of the 
voice ; sometimes to make a very considerable pause, where the 
grammatical construction requires none at all. In doing this, 
however, it is necessary that in the word immediately preceding 
the pause, the voice be kept up in such a manner as to intimate 
to the hearer that the sense is not completed. Mr. Garrick, the 
first of speakers, often observed this rule with great success. 
This particular excellence Mr. Sterne has described in his usual 
sprightly manner. 

Before a full pause, it has been customary in reading to drop 
the voice in a uniform manner ; and this has been called the 
cadence. But surely nothing can be more destructive of all pro- 
priety and energy than this habit. The tones and heights at the 
close of a sentence ought to be infinitely diversified, according to 
the general nature of the discourse, and the particular construc- 
tion and meaning of the sentence. In plain narrative, and espe- 
cially in argumentation, the least attention to the manner in 
which we relate a story, or support an argument in conversation, 
will show that it is more frequently proper to raise the voice than 
to fall it at the end of a sentence. Interrogatives, where the 
speaker seems to expect an answer, should almost always be 
elevated at the close with a particular tone, to indicate that a 
question is asked. Some sentences are so constructed, that the 
last words require a stronger emphasis than any of the preceding; 
while others admit of being closed with a soft and gentle sound. 

Where there is nothing in the sense which requires the last 
sound to be elevated or emphatical, an easy fall, sufficient to 
show that the sense is finished, will be proper. And in pathetic 
pieces, especially those of the plaintive, tender, or solemn kind, 
the tone of the passion w T ill often require a still greater cadence 
of the voice. But before a speaker can be able to fall his voice 
with propriety and judgment at the close of a sentence, he must 
be able to keep it from falling, and raise it with all the variations 
which the sense requires. The best method of correcting a uni- 
form cadence is frequently to read select sentences in which the 
style is pointed, and frequent antitheses are introduced, and 
argumentative pieces, or such as abound with interrogatives. 



32 AN ESSAY ON 

RULE VIII. 

Accompany the Emotions and Passions which your Words 
express, by correspondent Tones, Looks, and Gestures. 

There is the language of emotions and passions as well as 
of ideas. To express the former, is the peculiar province of 
words : to express the latter, nature teaches us to make use of 
tones, looks, and gestures. When anger, fear, joy, grief, love, 
or any other active passion, arises in our minds, we naturally 
discover it by the particular manner in which we utter our 
words ; by the features of the countenance, and by other well 
known signs. And even when we speak without any of the 
more violent emotions, some kind of feeling usually accompanies 
our words ; and this, whatever it be, has its proper external 
expression. Expression, indeed, has been so little studied in 
public speaking, that we seem almost to have forgotten the lan- 
guage of nature, and are ready to consider every attempt to 
recover it as the laboured and affected effort of art. But nature 
is always the same ; and every judicious imitation of it will 
always be pleasing. Nor can any one deserve the appellation 
of a good speaker, much less of a complete orator, till to distinct 
articulation, a good command of voice, and just emphasis, he is 
able to add the various expressions of emotion and passion. 

To enumerate these expressions, and describe them in all their 
variations, is impracticable. Attempts have been made with 
some success to analyze the language of ideas ; but the language 
of sentiment and emotion has never yet been analyzed ; and per- 
haps it is not within the reach of human ability to write a philo- 
sophical grammar of the passions. Or if it were possible in any 
degree to execute this design, I cannot think that from such a 
grammar it would be possible for any one to instruct himself in 
the use of the language. All endeavours, therefore, to make 
men orators by describing to them in words the manner in which 
their voice, countenance, and hands, are to be employed in ex- 
pressing the passions, must, in my apprehension, be weak and 
ineffectual. And, perhaps, the only instruction which can be 
given with advantage on this head, is this general one : Observe 
in what manner the several emotions or passions are expressed 
in real life, or by those who have with great labour and taste 
acquired a power of imitating nature ; and accustom yourself 
either to follow the great original itself, or the best copies you 
meet with; always, however, "with this special observance, 
that you overstep not the modesty of nature." 

In the application of these rules to practice, in order to acquire 
a just and graceful elocution, it will be necessary to go through 
a regular course of exercises; be^inningr with such as are more 



ELOCUTION. 33 

easy, and proceeding by slow steps to such as are most difficult. 
In the choice of these, the practitioner should pay a particular 
attention to his prevailing defects, whether they regard articula- 
tion, command of voice, emphasis or cadence : and he should 
content himself with reading and speaking with an immediate 
view to the correcting of his fundamental faults, before he aims 
at any thing higher. This may be irksome and disagreeable : it 
may require much patience and resolution ; but it is the only 
way to succeed. For if a man cannot read simple sentences, or 
plain narrative, or didactic pieces, with distinct articulation, just 
emphasis, and proper tones, how can he expect to do justice to 
the sublime descriptions of poetry, or the animated language of 
the passions 1 

In performing these exercises, the learner should daily read 
aloud by himself, and as often as he has an opportunity, under 
the direction of an instructor or friend. He should also fre- 
quently recite compositions memoriter. This method has several 
advantages : it obliges the speaker to dwell upon the idea which 
he is to express, and thereby enables him to discern their par- 
ticular meaning and force, and gives him a previous knowledge 
of the several inflections, emphasis, and tones, which the words 
require. And by taking his eyes from the book, it in part 
relieves him from the influence of the school-boy habit of read- 
ing in a different key and tone from that of conversation ; and 
gives him greater liberty to attempt the expression of the coun- 
tenance and gesture. 

It were much to be wished that all public speakers would 
deliver their thoughts and sentiments either from memory or 
immediate conception : for, besides that there is an artificial 
uniformity which almost always distinguishes reading from 
speaking, the fixed posture and the bending of the head, which 
reading requires, are inconsistent with the freedom, ease, and 
variety of just elocution. But this is not too much to be expected, 
especially from preachers, who have so much to compose, and 
are so often called upon to speak in public; it is, however, 
extremely desirable that they should make themselves so well 
acquainted with their discourse as to be able, with a single 
glance of the eye, to take in several clauses, or the whole of a 
sentence. 



PART I. 
LESSONS IN READING 



SECTION I. 

SELECT SENTENCES. 
I. 

Man's chief good is an upright mind, which no earthly power 
can bestow nor take from him. 

We ought to distrust our passions, even when they appear the 
most reasonable. 

It is idle as well as absurd to impose our opinions upon others. 
The i^ane ground of conviction operates differently on the same 
man in different circumstances, and on different men in the same 
circumstances. 

Choose what is most fit ; custom will make it the most agree- 
able. 

A cheerful countenance betokens a good heart. 

Hypocrisy is a homage that vice pays to virtue. 

Anxiety and constraint are the constant attendants of pride. 

Men make themselves ridiculous, not so much by the qualities 
they have, as by the affectation of those they have not. 

Nothing blunts the edge of ridicule so effectually as good 
humour. 

To say little and perform much, is the characteristic of a great 
mind. 

A man who gives his children a habit of industry, provides 
for them better than giving them a stock of money. 

II. 

Our good or bad fortune depends greatly on the choice we 
make of our friends. 

The young are slaves to novelty, the old to custom. 

No preacher is so successful as time. It gives a turn to 
thought to the aged, which it was impossible to inspire while 
they were young. 

(34) 



SECT. I.] LESSONS IN READING. 35 

Every man, however little, makes a figure in his own eyes. 

Self-partiality hides from us those very faults in ourselves 
which we see and blame in others. 

The injuries we do, and those we suffer, are seldom weighed 
in the same balance. 

Men generally put a greater value upon the favours they 
bestow, than upon those they receive. 

He who is puffed up with the first gale of prosperity will 
bend beneath the first blast of adversity. 

Adversity borrows its sharpest sting from our impatience. 

Men commonly owe their virtue or their vice to education as 
much as to nature. 

There is no such fop as my young master, of his lady mother's 
making. She blows him up with self-conceit, and there she 
stops. She makes a man of him at twelve, and a boy all his 
life after. 

An infallible way to make your child miserable, is to satisfy 
all his demands. Passion swells by gratification ; and the im- 
possibility of satisfying every one of his desires will oblige you 
to stop short at last, after he has become headstrong. 

III. 

We esteem most things according to their intrinsic merit : it 
is strange man should be an exception. We prize a horse for 
his strength and courage, not for his furniture. We prize a 
man for his sumptuous palace, his great train, his vast revenue ; 
yet these are his furniture, not his mind. 

The true conveniences of life are common to the king with 
his meanest subject. The king's sleep is not sweeter, nor his 
appetite better. 

The pomp which distinguishes the great man from the mob, 
defends him not from the fever nor from grfef. Give a prince 
all the names of majesty that are found in a folio dictionary, the 
first attack of the gout will make him forget his palace and his 
guards. If he be in choler, will his princedom prevent him from 
turning pale, and gnashing his teeth like a fool? The smallest 
prick of a nail, the slightest passion of the soul, is capable of 
rendering insipid the monarchy of the world. 

Narrow minds think nothing right that is above their own 
capacity. 

Those who are the most faulty are the most prone to find 
faults in others. 

The first and most important female quality is sweetness of 
temper. Heaven did not give to the female sex insinuation and 
persuasion, in order to be surly; it did not make them weak, in 
order to be imperious ; it did not give them a sweet voice, in 



36 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

order to be employed in scolding; it did not provide thern with 
delicate features, in order to be disfigured with anger. 

Let fame be regarded, but conscience much more. It is an 
empty joy to appear better than you are ; but a great blessing to 
be what you ought to be. 

Let your conduct be the result of deliberation, never of impa- 
tience. 

In the conduct of life, let it be one great aim to show that 
every thing you do proceeds from yourself; not from your pas- 
sions. Chrysippus rewards in joy, chastises in wrath, doth 
every thing in passion. No person stands in awe of Chrysippus, 
no person is grateful to him. Why ? Because it is not Chry- 
sippus who acts, but his passions. We shun him in wrath as 
we shun a wild beast; and this is all the authority he has 
over us. 

Indulge not desire at the expense of the slightest article of 
virtue. ; pass once its limits, and you fall headlong into vice. 

Examine well the counsel that favours your desires. 

The gratification of desire is sometimes the worst thing that 
can befall us. 

IV. 

To be angry, is to punish myself for the fault of another. 

A word dropped by chance from your friend offends your 
delicacy. Avoid a hasty reply; and beware of opening your 
discontent to the first person you meet. When you are cool it 
will vanish, and leave no impression. 

The most profitable revenge, the most rational, and the most 
pleasant, is to make it the interest of the injurious person not to 
hurt you a second time. 

It was a saying of Socrates, that we should eat and drink in 
order to live ; instead of living, as many do, in order to eat and 
drink. 

Be moderate in your pleasures, that your relish for them may 
continue. 

Time is requisite to bring great projects to maturity. 

Precipitation ruins the best contrived plan ; patience ripens 
the most difficult. 

When we sum up the miseries of life, the grief bestowed on 
trifles makes a great part of the account ; trifles which, neglected, 
are nothing. How shameful such a weakness ! 

The pensionary De Wit being asked how he could transact 
such a variety of business without confusion, answered, that he 
never did but one thing at a time. 

Guard your weak side from being known. If it be attacked, 
the best way is to join in the attack. 

Francis I. consulting with his generals how to lead his army 



SECT. I.] READING. 37 

over the Alps, into Italy, Amerel, his fool, sprung from a corner, 
and advised him to consult rather how to bring it back. 

The best practical rule of morality is, never to do but what 
we are willing all the world should know. 

Solicitude in hiding failings makes them appear the greater. 
It is a safer and easier course, frankly to acknowledge them. A 
man owns that he is ignorant ; we admire his modesty. He 
says he is old ; we scarce think him so. He declares himself 
poor ; we do not believe it. 

When you descant on the faults of others, consider whether 
you be not guilty of the same. To gain knowledge of ourselves, 
the best way is to convert the imperfections of others into a 
mirror for discovering our own. 

Apply yourself more to acquire knowledge than to show it. 
Men commonly take great pains to put off the little stock they 
have ; but they take little pains to acquire more. 

Never suffer your courage to be fierce, your resolution obsti- 
nate, your wisdom cunning, nor your patience sullen. 

To measure all reasons by our own, is a plain act of injustice : 
it is an encroachment on the common rights of mankind. 

If you would teach secrecy to others, begin with yourself. 
How can you expect another will keep your secret, when your- 
self cannot ? 

A man's fortune is more frequently made by his tongue, than 
by his virtues ; and more frequently crushed by it, than by his 
vices. 

V. 

Even self-interest is a motive for benevolence. There are 
none so low, but may have it in their power to return a good 
office. 

To deal with a man, you must know his temper, by which 
you can lead him ; or his ends, by which you can persuade 
hrm ; or his friends, by whom you can govern him. 

The first ingredient in conversation is truth ; the next, good 
sense; the third, good humour.; the last, wit. 

The great error in conversation is, to be fonder of speaking 
than of hearing. Few show more complaisance than to pretend 
to hearken, intent all the while upon what they themselves have 
to say ; not considering, that to seek one's own pleasure so pas- 
sionately is not the way to please others. 

To be an Englishman in London, a Frenchman in Paris, a 
Spaniard in Madrid, is no easy matter, and yet it is necessary. 

A man entirely without ceremony has need of great merit. 

He who cannot bear a jest, ought never to make one. 

In the deepest distress, virtue is more illustrious than vice in 
its highest prosperity. 
4 



38 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

No man is so foolish but he may give good counsel at a time ; 
no man so wise but he may err, if he take no counsel but his 
own. 

He whose ruling passion is love of praise, is a slave to every 
one who has a tongue for detraction. 

Always to indulge our appetites is to extinguish them. Ab- 
stain, that you may enjoy. 

To have your enemy in jrc-ur power, and yet to do him good, 
is the greatest heroism. 

Modesty, were it to be recommended for nothing else, leaves 
a man at ease, by pretending to little ; whereas vain glory re- 
quires perpetual labour to appear what one is not. 

If we have sense, modesty best sets it off; if not, best hides 
the want. 

When, even in the heat of dispute, I yield to my antagonist, 
my victory over myself is more illustrious than over him, had 
he yielded to me. 

The refined luxuries of the table, besides enervating the body, 
poison that very pleasure they are intended to promote ; for, by 
soliciting the appetite, they exclude the greatest pleasure of taste, 
that which arises from the gratification of hunger. 

VI.—- The Fox and the Goat. 

A Fox and a Goat travelling together, in a very sultry day, 
found themselves exceedingly thirsty ; when, looking round the 
country in order to discover a place where they might probably 
meet with water, they at length descried a clear spring at the 
bottom of a well. They both eagerly descended : and having 
sufficiently allayed their thirst, began to consider how they 
should get out. Many expedients for that purpose were mutu- 
ally proposed and rejected. At last the crafty Fox cried out 
with great joy — I have a thought just struck into my mind, 
which I am confident will extricate us out of our difficulty : Do 
you, said he to the Goat, only rear yourself up upon your hind 
legs, and rest your fore feet against the side of the well. In this 
posture, I will climb up to your head, from which I shall be 
able, with a spring, to reach the top ; and when I am once 
there, you are sensible it will be very easy for me to pull you 
out by the horns. The simple Goat liked the proposal well, and 
immediately placed himself as directed ; by means of which, 
the Fox, without much difficulty, gained the top. And now, 
said the Goat, give me the assistance you promised. Thou old 
fool, replied the Fox, hadst thou but half as much brains as 
beard, thou wouldst never have believed that I would hazard 
my own life to save thine. However, I will leave with thee a 
piece of advice, which may be of service to thee hereafter, if thou 



SECT. I.] READING. 39 

shouldst have the good fortune to make thy escape : never ven- 
ture into a well again, before thou hast well considered how to 
get out of it. 

VII. — The Fox and the Stork. 

The Fox, though in general more inclined to roguery than 
wit, had once a strong inclination to play the wag with his 
neighbour, the Stork. He accordingly invited her to dinner in 
great form ; but when it came upon the table, the Stork found it 
consisted entirely of different soups served up in broad shallow 
dishes, so that she could only dip in the end of her bill, but 
could not possibly satisfy her hunger. The Fox lapped it up 
very readily ; and every now and then addressing himself to his 
guest, desired to know how she liked her entertainment ; hoped 
that every thing was seasoned to her mind ; and protested he 
was very sorry to see her eat so sparingly. The Stork perceiv- 
ing she was played upon, took no notice of it, but pretended to 
like every dish extremely ; and, at parting, pressed the Fox so 
earnestly to return her visit, that he could not in civility refuse. 
The day arrived, and he repaired to his appointment ; but to his 
great mortification, when dinner appeared, he found it composed 
of minced meat, served up in long narrow-necked glasses ; so 
that he was only tantalized with the sight of what it was impos- 
sible for him to taste. The Stork thrust in her long bill and 
helped herself very plentifully ; then turning to Reynard, who 
was eagerly licking the outside of a jar, where some sauce had 
been spilled, I am very glad, said she, smiling, that you seem to 
have so good an appetite ; I hope you will make as hearty a dinner 
at my table as I did the other day at yours. Reynard hung 
down his head, and looked very much displeased. Nay, nay, 
said the Stork, don't pretend to be out of humour about the mat- 
ter ; they that cannot take a jest should never make one. 

VIII. — The Court of Death. 

Death, the king of terrors, was determined to choose a prime 
minister ; and his pale courtiers, the ghastly train of diseases, 
were all summoned to attend, when each preferred his claim to 
the honour of this illustrious office. Fever urged the numbers 
he had destroyed ; cold Palsy set forth his pretensions, by shaking 
all his limbs ; and Dropsy, by his swelled, unwieldy carcass. 
Gout hobbled up, and alleged his great power in racking every 
joint ; and Asthma's inability to speak was a strong, though 
silent argument in favour of his claim. Stone and Colic 
pleaded their violence ; Plague his rapid progress in destruction ; 
and Consumption, though slow, insisted that he was sure. In 



40 LESSONSIN [PAKT I. 

the midst of this contention, the court was disturbed with the 
noise of music, dancing, feasting, and revelry; when imme- 
diately entered a lady, with a bold lascivious air, and a flushed 
and jovial countenance : she was attended on one hand, by a 
troop of cooks and bacchanals, and on the other, by a train of 
wanton youths and damsels, who danced, half naked, to the 
softest musical instruments ; her name was Intemperance. 
She waved her hand, and thus addressed the crowd of diseases : 
Give way, ye sickly band of pretenders, nor dare to vie with my 
superior merits in the service of this great monarch. Am I not 
your parent ? the author of your beings ? do you not derive the 
power of shortening human life almost wholly from me ? Who, 
then, so fit as myself for this important office ? The grisly mo- 
narch grinned a smile of approbation, placed her at his right 
hand, and she immediately became his principal favourite and 
prime minister. 

IX. — The Partial Judge. 

A Farmer came to a neighbouring lawyer, expressing great 
concern for an accident which, he said, had just happened. One 
of your oxen, continued he, has been gored by an unlucky bull 
of mine ; and I should be glad to know how I am to make you 
reparation. Thou art a very honest fellow, replied the Lawyer, 
and wilt not think it unreasonable that I expect one of thy oxen 
in return. It is no more than justice, quoth the Farmer, to be 
sure. But, what did I say ? — I mistake. It is your bull that 
has killed one of my oxen. Indeed! says the Lawyer; that 
alters the case : I must inquire into the affair ; and if — And if ! 
said the Farmer — the business, I find, would have been con- 
cluded without an if, had you been as ready to do justice to 
others as to exact it from them. 



X. — The sick Lion, the Fox, and the TFoIf. 

A Lion, having surfeited himself with feasting too luxuriously 
on the carcass of a wild boar, was seized with a violent and 
dangerous disorder. The beasts of the forest flocked, in great 
numbers, to pay their respects to him upon the occasion, and 
scarce one was absent except the Fox. The Wolf, an ill- 
natured and malicious beast, seized this opportunity to accuse 
the Fox of pride, ingratitude, and disaffection to his majesty. 
In the midst of this invective, the Fox entered ; who, having 
heard part of the Wolf's accusation, and observed the Lion's 
countenance to be kindled into wrath, thus adroitly excused him- 
self, and retorted upon his accuser: I see many here who, with 
mere lip service, have pretended to show you their loyalty ; but, 



SECT. I.] READING. 41 

for my part, from the moment I heard of your majesty's illness, 
neglecting useless compliments, I employed myself, day and 
night, to inquire, among the most learned physicians, an infallible 
remedy for your disease ; and have, at length, happily been 
informed of one. It is a plaster made of part of a wolf's skin, 
taken warm from his back, and laid to your majesty's stomach. 
This remedy was no sooner proposed, than it was determined 
that the experiment should be tried ; and whilst the operation 
was performing, the Fox, with a sarcastic smile, whispered this 
useful maxim in the Wolf's ear : If you would be safe from harm 
yourself, learn for the future, not to meditate mischief against 
others. 

XI. — Dishonesty Punished. 

A usurer, having lost a hundred pounds in a bag, promised 
a reward of ten pounds to the person who should restore it. A 
man, having brought it to' him, demanded the reward. The 
usurer, loth to give the reward, now that he had got the bag, 
alleged, after the bag was opened, that there was a hundred and 
ten pounds in it, when he lost it. The usurer, being called be- 
fore the judge, unwarily acknowledged that the seal was broken 
open in his presence, and that there was no more at that time 
but a hundred pounds .in the bag. "You say," says the judge, 
" that the bag you lost had a hundred and ten pounds in it." 
"Yes, my lord." "Then," replied the judge, "this cannot be 
your bag, as it .contained but a hundred pounds ; therefore the 
plaintiff must keep it till the true owner appears ; and you must 
look for your bag where you can find it." 

XII. — The Picture. 

Sir William Lely, a famous painter in the reign of Charles 
I., agreed beforehand for the price of a picture he was to draw 
for a rich London Alderman, who was not indebted to nature, 
either for shape or face. The picture being finished, the Alder- 
man endeavoured to beat down the price, alleging, that if he did 
not purchase it, it would lie on the painter's hand. "That's 
your mistake," says Sir William, " for I can sell it at double 
the price I demand." " How can that be," says the Alderman, 
"for 'tis like nobody but myself?" "True," replied Sir Wil- 
liam, " but I can draw a tail to it, and then it will be an excel- 
lent monkey." Mr. Alderman, to prevent being exposed, paid 
down the money demanded, and carried off the picture. 

XIII.— The Two Bees. 

On a fine morning in May, two bees set forward in quest of 

honey ; the one wise and temperate, the other careless and ex- 

4* 



42 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

travagant. They soon arrived at a garden enriched with aro- 
matic herbs, the most fragrant flowers, and the most delicious 
fruits. They regaled themselves for a time on the various dain- 
ties that were spread before them ; the one loading his thigh, at 
intervals, with provisions for the hive, against the distant winter; 
the other revelling in sweets, without regard to any thing but his 
present gratification. At length they found a wide-mouthed 
phial, that hung beneath the bough of a peach tree, filled with 
honey, ready tempered, and exposed to their taste, in the most 
alluring manner. The thoughtless epicure, in spite of all his 
friend's remonstrances, plunged headlong into the vessel, re- 
solving to indulge himself in all the pleasures of sensuality. 
The philosopher, on the other hand, sipped a little with caution, 
but, being suspicious of danger, flew off to fruits and flowers, 
where, by the moderation of his meals, he improved his relish 
for the true enjoyment of them. In the evening, however, he 
called upon his friend, to inquire whether he would return to 
the hive ; but he found him surfeited in sweets, which he was 
as unable to leave as to enjoy. Clogged in his wings, enfeebled 
in his feet, and his whole frame totally enervated, he was but 
just able to bid his friend adieu, and to lament, with his latest 
breath, that, though a taste of pleasure might quicken the relish 
of life, an unrestrained indulgence is inevitable destruction. 

XIV. — Beauty and Deformity. 

A youth, who lived in the country, and who had not acquired, 
either by reading or conversation, any knowledge of the animals 
which inhabit foreign regions, came to Manchester to see an 
exhibition of wild beasts. The size and figure of the elephant 
struck him with awe ; and he viewed the rhinoceros with astonish- 
ment. But his attention was soon drawn from these animals, 
and directed to another of the most elegant and beautiful form ; 
and he stood contemplating with silent admiration the glossy 
smoothness of his hair, the blackness and regularity of the streaks 
with which he was marked, the symmetry of his limbs, and, 
above all, the placid sweetness of his countenance. " What is 
the name of this lovely animal," said he to the keeper, " which 
you have placed near one of the ugliest beasts in your collection, 
as if you meant to contrast beauty with deformity ?" " Beware, 
young man," replied the intelligent keeper, "of being so easily 
captivated with external appearance. The animal which you 
admire is called a tiger ; and, notwithstanding the meekness of 
his looks, he is fierce and savage beyond description : I can 
neither terrify him by correction, nor tame him by indulgence. 
But the other beast, which you despise, is in the highest degree 
docile, affectionate, and useful. For the benefit of man, he tra- 



SECT. I.] READING. 43 

verses the sandy deserts of Arabia, where drink and pasture 
are seldom to be found ; and will continue six or seven days 
without sustenance, yet still patient of labour. His hair is 
manufactured into clothing; his flesh is deemed wholesome 
nourishment; and the milk of the female is much valued by the 
Arabs. The camel, therefore, for such is the name given to this 
animal, is more worthy of your admiration than the tiger ; not- 
withstanding the inelegance of his make, and the two bunches 
upon his back. For mere external beauty is of little estimation ; 
and deformity, when associated with amiable dispositions and 
useful qualities, does not preclude our respect and approbation." 

XV. — Remarkable Instance of Friendship. 

Damon and Pythias, of the Pythagorean sect in philosophy, 
lived in the time of Dionysius, the tyrant of Sicily. Their mu- 
tual friendship was so strong, that they were ready to die for one 
another. One of the two (for it is not known which) being con- 
demned to death by the tyrant, obtained leave to go into his own 
country to settle his affairs, on condition that the other should 
consent to be imprisoned in his stead, and put to death for him, 
if he did not return before the day of execution. The attention 
of every one, and especially of the tyrant himself, was excited to 
the highest pitch, as everybody was curious to see what would 
be the event of so strange an affair. When the time was almost 
elapsed, and he who was gone did not appear, the rashness of 
the other, whose sanguine friendship had put him upon running 
so seemingly desperate a hazard, was universally blamed. But 
he still declared that he had not the least shadow of doubt in his 
mind of his friend's fidelity. The event showed how well he 
knew him. Fie came in due time, and surrendered himself to 
that fate which he had no reason to think he should escape ; and 
which he did not desire to escape, by leaving his friend to suffer 
in his place. Such fidelity softened even the savage heart of 
Dionysius himself. He pardoned the condemned ; he gave the 
two friends to one another, and begged that they would take 
himself in for a third. 

XVI. — Dionysius and Damocles. 

Dionysius, the tyrant of Sicily, showed how far he was from 
being happy, even whilst he abounded in riches, and all the 
pleasures which riches can procure. Damocles, one of his flat- 
terers, was complimenting him upon his power, his treasures, 
and the magnificence of his royal state, and affirming that no 
monarch ever was greater or happier than. he. "Have you a 
mind, Damocles," says the king, " to .taste this happiness, and 



44 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

know by experience what my enjoyments are, of which you 
have so high an idea ?" Damocles gladly accepted the offer. 
Upon which the king ordered that a royal banquet should be 
prepared, and a gilded couch placed for him, covered with rich 
embroidery, and sideboards loaded with gold and silver plate of 
immense value. Pages of extraordinary beauty were ordered to 
wait on him at table, and to obey his commands with the greatest 
readiness, and the most profound submission. Neither oint- 
ments, chaplets of flowers, nor rich perfumes, were wanting. 
The table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies of every 
kind. Damocles fancied himself among the gods. In the midst 
of all his happiness, he sees let down from the roof, exactly over 
his neck, as he lay indulging himself in state, a glittering sword, 
hung by a single hair. The sight of destruction, thus threaten- 
ing him from on high, soon put a stop to his joy and revelling. 
The pomp of his attendants, and the glitter of the carved plate, 
gave him no longer any pleasure. He dreads to stretch forth his 
hand to the table ; he throws off the chaplet of roses ; he hastens 
to remove from his dangerous situation ; and, at last, begs the 
king to restore him to his former humble condition, having no 
desire to enjoy any longer such a dreadful kind of happiness. 

XV [I. — Character of Catiline. 

Lucius Catiline, by birth a patrician, was, by nature, en- 
dowed with superior advantages, both bodily and mental ; but 
his dispositions were corrupt and wicked. From his youth, his 
supreme delight was in violence, slaughter, rapine, and intestine 
confusions ; and such works were the employment of his earliest 
years. His constitution qualified him for bearing hunger, cold, 
and want of sleep, to a degree exceeding belief. His mind was 
daring, subtle, unsteady. There was no character which he 
could not assume, and put off at pleasure. Rapacious of what 
belonged to others, prodigal of his own, violently bent on what- 
ever became the object of his pursuit. He possessed a consider- 
able share of eloquence, but little solid knowledge. His insatiable 
temper was ever pushing him to grasp at what was immoderate, 
romantic, and out of his reach. 

About the time of the disturbances raised by Sylla, Catiline 
was seized by a violent lust of power; nor did he at all hesitate 
about the means, so he could but attain his purpose of raising 
himself to supreme dominion. His restless spirit was in a con- 
tinual ferment, occasioned by the confusion of his own private 
affairs, and by the horrors of his guilty conscience ; both which 
he had brought upon himself by living the life above described. 
He was encouraged in his ambitious projects by the general 
corruption of manners which then prevailed among a people 



ECT. I.] READING. 45 

nfected with two vices, not less opposite to one another in their 
natures, than mischievous in their tendencies; I mean luxury 
and avarice. 

XVIII. — Avarice and Luxury. 

There were two very powerful tyrants engaged in a perpetual 
war against each other ; the name of the first was Luxury, and 
of the second, Avarice. The aim of each of them was no less 
than universal monarchy over the hearts of mankind. Luxury, 
had many generals under him, who did him great service ; as 
Pleasure, Mirth, Pomp, and Fashion. Avarice was likewise 
very strong in his officers, being faithfully served by Hunger, 
Industry, Care, and Watchfulness ; he had likewise a privy 
counsellor, who was always at his elbow, and whispering some- 
thing or other in his ear; the name of this privy counsellor was 
Poverty. As Avarice conducted himself by the counsels of 
Poverty, his antagonist was entirely guided by the dictates and 
advice of Plenty, who was his first counsellor and minister of 
state, that concerted all his measures for him, and never departed 
out of his sight. While these two great rivals were thus con- 
tending for empire, their conquests were very various. Luxury 
got possession of one heart, and Avarice of another. The father 
of a family would often range himself under the banners of 
Avarice, and the son under those of Luxury. The wife and 
husband would often declare themselves of the two different 
parties ; nay, the same person would very often side with one in 
his youth, and revolt to the other in old age. Indeed, the wise 
men of the world stood neuter ; but, alas ! their numbers were 
not considerable. At length, when these two potentates had 
wearied themselves with waging war upon one another, they 
agreed upon an interview, at which neither of the counsellors 
was to be present. It is said that Luxury began the parley ; 
and after having represented the endless state of war in which 
they were engaged, told his enemy, with a frankness of heart 
which is natural to him, that he believed they two should be 
very good friends, were it not for the instigations of Poverty, that 
pernicious counsellor, who made an ill use of his ear, and filled 
him with groundless apprehensions and prejudices. To this 
Avarice replied, that he looked upon Plenty (the first minister 
of his antagonist) to be a much more destructive counsellor than 
Poverty ; for that he was perpetually suggesting pleasures' 
banishing all the necessary cautions against want, and conse- 
quently undermining those principles on which the government 
of Avarice was founded. At last, in order to an accommodation, 
they agreed upon this preliminary: that each of them should 
immediately dismiss his privy counsellor. When things were 



46 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

thus far adjusted towards a peace, all other differences were 
soon accommodated ; insomuch, that for the future they resolved 
to live as good friends and confederates, and share between them- 
whatever conquests were made on either side. For this reason, 
we now find Luxury and Avarice taking possession of the same 
heart, and dividing the same person between them. To which 
I shall only add, that since the discarding of the counsellors 
above mentioned, Avarice supplies Luxury, in the room of 
Plenty, as Luxury prompts Avarice, in the plaee of Poverty. 

XIX. — Hercules' Choice. 

When Hercules was in that part of his youth in which it Was 
natural for him to consider what course of life he ought to pur- 
sue, he one day retired into a desert, where the silence and soli- 
tude of the place very much favoured his meditations. As he 
was musing on his present condition, and very much perplexed 
in himself on the state of life he should choose, he saw two 
women, of a larger stature than ordinary, approaching towards 
him. One of them had a very noble air, and graceful deport- 
ment ; her beauty was natural and easy, her person clean and 
unspotted, her eyes cast towards the ground, with an agreeable 
reserve, her motions and behaviour full of modesty, and her rai- 
ment was white as snow. The other had a great deal of health 
and floridness in her countenance, which she had helped with 
an artificial white and red ; and she endeavoured to appear more 
graceful than ordinary in her mien, by a mixture of affectation 
in all her gestures. She had a wonderful confidence and assur- 
ance in her looks, and all the variety of colours in her dress, that 
she thought were the most proper to show her complexion to 
advantage. She cast her eyes upon herself, then turned them 
on those that were present to see how they liked her ; and often 
looked on the figure she made in her own shadow. Upon her 
nearer approach to Hercules, she stepped before the other lady, 
who came forward with a regular, composed carriage, and run- 
ning up to him, accosted him after the following manner : — 

"My dear Hercules," says she, "I find yo'u are very much 
divided in your thoughts, upon the way of life that you ought 
to choose ; be my friend, and follow me ; I will lead you into 
the possession of pleasure, and out of the reach of pain, and 
remove you from all the noise and disquietude of business. The 
affairs of either peace or war shall have no power to disturb 
you. Your whole employment shall be to make your life easy, 
and to entertain every sense with its proper gratifications. 
Sumptuous tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfumes, concerts of 
music, crowds of beauties, are all in readiness to receive you. 
Come along with me into this region of delights, this world of 



SECT. I.] READING.. 47 

pleasure, and bid farewell for ever to care, to pain, to busi- 
ness." 

Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, desired to 
know her name ; to which she answered, " My friends, and 
those who are well acquainted with me, call me Happiness ; but 
my enemies, and those who would injure my reputation, have 
given me the name of Pleasure." 

By this time the other lady came up, who addressed herself 
to the young hero in a very different manner. 

"Hercules," says she, " I offer myself to you, because I know 
you are descended from the gods, and give proofs of that descent 
by your love to virtue, and application to the studies proper for 
your age. This makes me hope you will gain, both for your- 
self and me, an immortal reputation. But, before I invite you 
into my society and friendship, I will be open and sincere with 
you, and must lay down this as an established truth, that there 
is nothing truly valuable which can be purchased without pains 
and labour. The gods have set a price upon every real and 
noble pleasure. If you would gain the favour of the Deity, you 
must be at the pains of worshipping him : if the friendship of 
good men, you must study to oblige them : if you would be 
honoured by your country, you must take care to serve it. In 
short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you must become 
master of all the qualifications that can make you so. These 
are the only terms and conditions upon which I can propose 
happiness." The goddess of Pleasure here broke in upon her 
discourse : " You see," said she, " Hercules, by her own con- 
fession, the way to her pleasures is long and difficult; whereas, 
that which I propose is short and easy." " Alas !" said the 
other lady, whose visage glowed with passion, made up of scorn 
and pity, "what are the pleasures you propose 1 To eat before 
you are hungry, drink before you are athirst, sleep before you 
are tired ; to gratify your appetites before they are raised, and 
raise such appetites as nature never planted. You never heard 
the most delicious music, which is the praise of one's own self; 
nor saw the most beautiful object, which is the work of one's 
own hands. Your votaries pass away their youth in a dream 
of mistaken pleasures, while they are hoarding up anguish, tor- 
ment, and remorse, for old age. 

" As for me, I am the friend of gods and of good men, an 
agreeable companion to the artisan, a household guardian to the 
fathers of families, a patron and protector of servants, an asso- 
ciate in all true and generous friendships. The banquets of my 
votaries are never costly, but always delicious ; for none eat and 
drink at them who are not invited by hunger and thirst. Their 
slumbers are sound, and their wakings cheerful. My young 
men have the pleasure of hearing themselves praised by those 



48 L E S S O N S I N [PART I. 

who are in years; and those who are in.years, of being honoured 
by those who are young. In a word, my followers are favoured 
by the gods, beloved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their 
country, and after the close of their labours, honoured by pos- 
terity.'"' 

We know by the life of this memorable hero, to which of 
these two ladies he gave up his heart ; and I believe every one 
who reads this will do him the justice to approve his choice. 

XX. — Will Honeycomb's Spectator. 

My friend, Will Honeycomb, has told me, for above this half 
year, that he had a great mind to try his hand at a Spectator, 
and that he would fain have one of his writings in my works. 
This morning I received from him the following letter, which, 
after having rectified some little orthographical mistakes, I shall 
make a present to the public. 

"Dear Spec — I was about two nights ago in company with 
very agreeable young people, of both sexes, where, talking of 
some of your papers, which are written on conjugal love, there 
arose a dispute among us, whether there were not more bad 
husbands in the world than bad wives. A gentleman, who was 
advocate for the ladies, took this occasion to tell us the story of a 
famous siege in Germany,, which I have since found related in 
my historical dictionary, after the following manner. When the 
emperor Conrad III. had besieged Guelphus, duke of Bavaria, 
in the city of Hensberg, the women, finding that the town could 
not possibly hold out long, petitioned the emperor that they 
might depart out of it with so much as each of them could carry. 
The emperor, knowing they could not convey away many of 
their effects, granted them their petition ; when the women, to 
his great surprise, came out of the place with every one her 
husband upon her back. The emperor was so moved at the 
sight, that he burst into tears ; and after having very much ex- 
tolled the women for their conjugal affection, gave the men to 
their wives, and received the duke into his favour. 

" The ladies did not a little triumph at this story ; asking us 
at the same time, whether in our consciences we believed that 
the men in any town of Great Britain would, upon the same 
offer, and at the same conjuncture, have loaded themselves with 
their wives ? Or rather, whether they would not have been 
glad of such an opportunity to get rid of them? To this my 
very good friend, Tom Dapperwit, who took upon him to be the 
mouth of our sex, replied, that they would be very much to 
blame if they would not do the same good office for the women, 
considering that their strength would be greater and their bur- 
dens lighter. As we were amusing ourselves with discourses 



SECT. I.] READING. 49 

of this nature, in order to pass away the evening, which now 
began to grow tedious, we fell into that laudable and primitive 
diversion of questions and commands. I Was no sooner vested 
with the regal authority, but I enjoined all the ladies, under pain 
of my displeasure, to tell the company ingenuously, in case they 
had been in the siege above-mentioned, and had the same offers 
made them as the good women of that place, what every one of 
them would have brought off with her, and have thought most 
worth the saving? There were several merry answers made to 
my question, which entertained us till bed-time. This filled my 
mind with such a huddle of ideas, that upon my going to sleep, 
I fell into the following dream : 

" I saw a town of this island, which shall be nameless, invested 
on every side, and the inhabitants of it so straitened as to cry for 
quarter. The general refused any other terms than those granted 
to the above-mentioned town of Hensberg ; namely, that the 
married women might come out, with what they could bring 
along with them. Immediately the city gates flew open, and a 
female procession appeared, multitudes of the sex following one 
another in a row, and staggering under their respective burdens. 
I took my stand upon an eminence in the enemy's camp, which 
was appointed for the general rendezvous of these female car- 
riers, being very desirous to look into their several ladings. The 
first of them had a huge sack upon her shoulders, which she set 
down with great care : upon the opening of it, when I expected 
to have seen her husband shoot out of it, I found it was filled with 
china-ware. The next appeared in a more decent figure, carry- 
ing a handsome young fellow upon her back : I could not for- 
bear commending the young woman for her conjugal affection, 
when, to my great surprise, I found that she had left the good 
man at home, and brought away her gallant. I saw a third at 
some distance, with a little withered face peeping over her 
shoulder, whom I could not suspect for any other but her 
spouse, till upon her setting him doWn, I heard her call him 
dear pug, and found him to be her favourite monkey. A fourth 
brought a huge bale of cards along with her ; and the fifth a 
Bologna lapdog ; for her husband, it seems, being a very bulky 
man, she thought it would be less trouble for her to bring away 
little cupid. The next was the wife of a rich usurer, loaded 
with a bag of gold : she told us that her spouse was very old, 
and by the course of nature could not expect to live long ; and 
that to show her tender regard for. him, she had saved that which 
the poor man loved better than his life. The next came towards 
us with her son upon her back, who, we were told, was the 
greatest rake in the place, but so much the mother's darling, that 
she left her husband behind, with a large family of hopeful sons 
and daughters, for the sake of this graceless youth, 
5 d 



50 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

"It would be endless to mention the several persons, with 
their several loads, that appeared to me in this strange vision. 
All the place about me was covered with packs of ribands, 
broaches, embroidery, and ten thousand other materials, suffi- 
cient to have furnished a whole street of toyshops. One of the 
women, having a husband who was none of the heaviest, was 
bringing him off upon her shoulders, at the same time that she 
carried a great bundle of Flanders lace under her arm ; but find- 
ing herself so overladen that she could not save both of them, 
she dropped the good man, and brought away the bundle. In 
short, I found but one husband among this great mountain of 
baggage, who was a lively cobbler, that kicked and spurred ail 
the while his wife was carrying him off, and, as it was said, had 
scarce passed a day in his life, without giving her the discipline 
of the strap. 

" 1 cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec, without telling thee 
one very odd whim in this my dream. I saw, methought, a 
dozen women employed in bringing off one man : I could not 
guess who it should be, till, upon his nearer approach, I disco- 
vered thy short phiz. The women all declared that it was for 
the sake of thy works, and not thy person, that they brought 
thee off, and that it was on condition that thou shouldest con- 
tinue the Spectator. If thou thinkest this dream will make a 
tolerable one, it is at thy service, from, dear Spec, thine, sleeping 
and waking, Will Honeycomb." 

The ladies will see, by this letter, what I have often told them, 
that Will is one of those old-fashioned men of wit and pleasure 
of the town, who show their parts by raillery on marriage, and 
one who has often tried his fortune in that way without success. 
I cannot, however, dismiss this letter, without observing, that 
the true story, on which it is built, does honour to the sex ; and 
that, in order to abuse them, the writer is obliged to have recourse 
to dream and fiction. 

XXI.— On Good Breeding. 

A friend of yours and mine has very justly defined good 
breeding to be, " the result of much good sense, some good na- 
ture, and a little self-denial, for the sake of others, and with a 
view to obtain the same indulgence from them." Taking this 
for granted (as I think it cannot be disputed), it is astonishing to 
me, that any body, who has good sense and good nature, can 
essentially fail in good breeding. As to the modes of it, indeed, 
they vary, according to persons, places, and circumstances, and 
are only to be acquired by observation and experience ; but the 
substance of it is every where and eternally the same. Good 



SECT. I.] READING. 51 

manners are, to particular societies, what good morals are to 
society in general, — their cement and their security. And as 
laws are enacted to enforce good morals, or at least to prevent 
the ill effects of bad ones ; so there are certain rules of civility, 
universally implied and received, to enforce good manners, and 
punish bad ones. And indeed there seems to me to be less dif- 
ference both between the crimes and punishments, than at first 
one would imagine. The immoral man, who invades another's 
property, is justly hanged for it; and the ill-bred man, who by 
his ill manners, invades and disturbs the quiet and comforts of 
private life, is by common consent, as justly banished society. 
Mutual complaisances, attentions, and sacrifices of little con- 
veniences, are as natural an implied compact between civilized 
people, as protection and obedience are between kings and 
subjects; whoever, in either case, violates that compact, justly 
forfeits all advantages arising from it. For my own part, I 
really think, that next to the consciousness of doing a good 
action, that of doing a civil one is one of the most pleasing ; and 
the epithet which I should covet the most, next to that of Aris- 
tides, would be that of well-bred. Thus much for good breed- 
ing, in general ; I will now consider some of the various modes 
and degrees of it. 

Very few, scarcely any, are wanting in the respect which they 
should show to those whom they acknowledge to be highly their 
superiors; such as crowned heads, princes, and public persons 
of distinguished and eminent posts. It is the manner of showing 
that respect, which is different. The man of fashion and of the 
world, expresses it in its fullest extent ; but naturally, easily, 
and without concern : whereas a man who is not used to keep 
good company, expresses it awkwardly ; one sees that he is not 
used to it, and that it costs him a great deal ; but I never saw 
the worst bred man living, guilty of lolling, whistling, scratching 
his head, and such like indecencies, in company that he re- 
spected. In such companies, therefore, the only point to be 
attended to is, to show that respect, which every body means to 
show, in an easy, unembarrassed, and graceful manner. This 
is what observation and experience must teach you. 

In mixed companies, whoever is admitted to make part of 
them, is for the time at least, supposed to be upon a footing of 
equality with the rest; and consequently, as there is no one 
principal object of awe and respect, people are apt to take a 
greater latitude in their behaviour, and to be less upon their 
guard ; and so they may, provided it be within certain bounds, 
which are, upon no occasion, to be transgressed. But upon 
these occasions, though no one is entitled to distinguished marks 
of respect, every one claims, and very justly, every mark of 
civility and good breeding. Ease is allowed, but carelessness 



52 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

and negligence are strictly forbidden. If a man accosts you, 
and talks to you ever so dully or frivolously, it is worse than 
rudeness, it is brutality to show him, by a manifest inattention to 
what he says, that you think him a fool, or a blockhead, and 
not worth hearing. It is much more so with regard to women, 
who, of whatever rank they are, are entitled, in consideration of 
their sex, not only to an attentive, but an officious good breeding 
from men. Their little wants, likings, dislikes, preferences, an- 
tipathies, and fancies, must be officiously attended to, and, if 
possible, guessed at and anticipated, by a well-bred man. You 
must never usurp to yourself those conveniences and gratifica- 
tions which are of common right, such as the best places, the 
best dishes, &c. ; but on the contrary, always decline them your 
self, and offer them to others, who in their turns will offer them 
to you ; so that upon the whole, you will, in your turn, enjoy 
your share of the common right. It would be endless for me to 
enumerate all the particular circumstances, in which a well-bred 
man shows his good breeding, in good company ; and it would 
be injurious to you to suppose that your own good sense will 
not point them out to you ; and then your own good nature will 
recommend, and your self-interest enforce the practice. 

There is a third sort of good breeding, in which people are the 
most apt to fail, from a very mistaken notion, that they cannot 
fail at all. I mean with regard to one's most familiar friends 
and acquaintances, or those who really are our inferiors ; and 
there, undoubtedly, a greater degree of ease is not only allowa- 
ble, but proper, and contributes much to the comforts of a private 
social life. But ease and freedom have their bounds, which 
must by no means be violated. A certain degree of negligence 
and carelessness becomes injurious and insulting, from the real 
or supposed inferiority of the persons ; and that delightful liberty 
of conversation, among a few friends, is soon destroyed, as liberty 
often has been, by being carried to licentiousness. But example 
explains things best, and I will put a pretty strong case. Sup- 
pose you and me alone together ; I believe you will allow that I 
have as good a right to unlimited freedom, in your company, as 
either you or I can possibly have in any other ; and I am apt to 
believe, too, that you would indulge me in that freedom as far as 
any body would. But notwithstanding this, do you imagine 
that I should think there were no bounds to that freedom? I 
assure you I should not think so : and I take myself to be as 
much tied down, by a certain degree of good manners to you, 
as by other degrees of them to other people. The most familiar 
and intimate habitudes, connexions and friendships, require a 
degree of good breeding, both to preserve and cement them. 
The best of us have our bad sides; and it is as imprudent as it 
is ill bred, to exhibit them. 1 shall not use ceremony with vou ; 



SECT. I.] READING. 53 

it would be misplaced between us ; but I shall certainly observe 
that degree of good breeding with you, which is, in the .first 
place, decent, and which, I am sure, is absolutely necessary, to 
make us like one another's company long. 

■ XXII. — Address to a young Student. 

Your parents have watched over your helpless infancy, and 
conducted you, with many a pang, to an age at which your mind, 
is capable of manly improvement. Their solicitude still con- 
tinues, and no trouble nor expense is spared in giving you all the 
instructions and accomplishments which may enable you to act 
your part in life as a man of polished sense and confirmed virtue. 
You have, then, already contracted a great debt of gratitude to 
them. You can pay it by no other method but by using pro- 
perly the advantages which their goodness has afforded you. 

If your own endeavours are deficient, it is in vain that you 
have tutors, books, and all the external apparatus of literary pur- 
suits. You must love learning, if you would possess it. In 
order to love it, you must feel its delights ; in order to feel its 
delights, you must ap^ly to it, however irksome at first, closely, 
constantly, and for a considerable time. If you have resolution 
enough to do this, you cannot but love learning ; for the mind 
always loves that to which it has been so long, steadily, and 
voluntarily attached. Habits are formed which render what 
was at first disagreeable, not only pleasant, but necessary. 

Pleasant, indeed, are all the paths which lead to polite and 
elegant literature. Yours, then, is surely a lot particularly 
happy. Your education is of such a sort, that its principal scope 
is to prepare you to receive a refined pleasure during your life. 
Elegance, or delicacy of taste, is one of the first objects of clas- 
sical discipline : and it is this fine quality which opens a new 
world to the scholar's view. Elegance of taste has a connexion 
with many virtues, and all of them virtues of the most amiable 
kind. It tends to render you at once good and agreeable : you 
must therefore be an enemy to your own enjoyment, if you enter 
on the discipline which leads to the attainment of a classical and 
liberal education with reluctance. Value duly the opportunities 
you enjoy, and which are denied to thousands of your fellow- 
creatures. 

Without exemplary diligence, you will make but a con- 
temptible proficiency. You may, indeed, pass through the 
forms of schools and universities ; but you will bring nothing 
away from them of real valve. The proper sort and degree of 
diligence you cannot possess, but by the efforts of your own reso- 
lution. Your instructor may, indeed, confine you within the 
walls of a school a certain number of hours. He may place 



54 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

books before you, and compel you to fix your eyes upon them ; 
but no authority can chain down your mind. Your thoughts 
will escape from every external restraint, and, amidst the most 
serious lectures, may be ranging in the wild pursuits of trifles 
and vice. Rules, restraints, commands, and punishments, may, 
indeed, assist in strengthening your resolution ; but without your 
own voluntary choice, your diligence will not often conduce to 
your pleasure or advantage. Though this truth is obvious, yet 
it seems to be a secret to those parents who expect to find their 
son's improvement increase in proportion to the number of tutors 
and external assistance which their opulence has enabled them 
to provide. These assistances, indeed, are sometimes afforded 
chiefly that the young heir to a title or estate may indulge him- 
self in idleness and nominal pleasures. The lesson is construed 
to him, and the exercises written for him by the private tutor, 
while the hapless youth is engaged in some ruinous pleasure, 
which, at the same time, prevents him from learning any thing 
desirable, and leads to the formation of destructive habits, which 
can seldom be removed. 

But the principal obstacle to your improvement at school, 
especially if you are too plentifully supplied w T ith money, is a 
perverse ambition of being distinguished as a boy of spirit in 
mischievous pranks, in neglecting the tasks and lessons, and for 
every vice and irregularity which the puerile age can admit. 
You will have sense enough, I hope, to discover, beneath the 
mask of gaiety and good nature, that malignant spirit of detrac- 
tion which endeavours to render the boy who applies to books, 
and to all the duties and proper business of school, ridiculous. 
You will see, by the light of your reason, that the ridicule is 
misapplied. You will discover that the boys who have recourse 
to ridicule, are, for the most part, stupid, unfeeling, ignorant, and 
vicious. Their noisy folly, their bold confidence, their contempt 
of learning, and their defiance of authority, are, for the most part, 
the genuine effects of hardened insensibility. Let not their in- 
sults and ill treatment dispirit you ; if you yield to them with a 
tame and abject submission, they will not fail to triumph over 
you with additional insolence. Display a fortitude in your pur- 
suits equal in degree to the obstinacy in which they persist in 
theirs. Your fortitude will soon overcome theirs, which is, 
indeed, seldom any thing more than the audacity of a bully. 
Indeed, you cannot go through a school with ease to yourself 
and with success, without a considerable share of courage. I 
do not mean that sort of courage which leads to battles and con- 
tentions, but which enables you to have a will of your own, and 
to pursue what is right, amidst all the persecutions of surround- 
ing enviers, dunces, and detractors. Ridicule is the weapon 
made use of at a school, as well as in the world, when the for- 



SECT. I.] READING. 55 

tresses of virtue are to be assailed. You will effectually repel 
the attack by a dauntless spirit and unyielding perseverance. 
Though numbers are against you, yet, with truth and rectitude 
on your side, you may, though alone, be equal to an army. 

By laying in a store of useful knowledge, adorning your mind 
with elegant literature, improving and establishing your conduct 
by virtuous principles, you cannot fail of being a comfort to 
those friends who have supported you, of being happy within 
yourself, and of being well received by mankind. Honour and 
success in life will probably attend you. Under all circum- 
stances, you will have an eternal source of consolation and en- 
tertainment, of which no sublunary vicissitude can deprive you. 
Time will show how much wiser has been your choice, than 
that of your idle companions, who would gladly have drawn you 
into their association, or rather into their conspiracy, as it has 
been called, against good manners, and against all that is honour- 
able and useful. While you appear in society as a respectable 
and valuable member of it, they will, perhaps, have sacrificed 
at the shrine of vanity, pride, and extravagance, and false 
pleasure, their health and their sense, their fortune and their 
characters. 



XXIII. — The Folly of Pride. 

After all, take some quiet, sober moment of life, and add 
together the two ideas of pride, and of man ; behold him, a crea- 
ture of a span high, stalking through infinite space, in all the 
grandeur of littleness. Perched on a little speck of the universe, 
every wind of heaven strikes into his blood the coldness of death ; 
his soul fleets from his body, like melody from the string ; day 
and night, as dust on the wheel, he is rolled along the heavens, 
through a labyrinth of worlds, and all the systems, and creations 
of God are flaming above and beneath. Is this a creature to 
revel in his greatness? Is this a creature to make to himself a 
crown of glory ; to deny his own flesh and blood ; and to mock 
at his fellow, sprung from that dust to which they both will soon 
return? Does the proud man not err? Does he not suffer? 
Does he not die? When he reasons, is he never stopped by 
difficulties ? When he acts, is he never tempted by pleasures ? 
When he lives, is he free from pain? When he dies, can he 
escape from the common grave ? Pride is not the heritage of 
man ; humility should dwell with frailty, and atone for ignorance, 
error, and imperfection. 



56 LESSONS IN [PART 1. 

XXIV. — Advantages of, and Motives to, Cheerfulness. 

Cheerfulness is, in the first place, the best promoter of health. 
Repinings, and secret murmurs of the heart, give imperceptible 
strokes to those delicate fibres of which the vital parts are com- 
posed, and wear out the machine insensibly ; not to mention 
those violent ferments which they stir up in the blood, and those 
irregular, disturbed motions which they raise in the animal 
spirits. T scarce remember, in my own observation, to have 
met with many old men, or with such who (to use our English 
phrase) wear well, that had not at least a certain indolence in 
their humour, if not more than ordinary gaiety and cheerfulness 
of heart. The truth of it is, health and cheerfulness mutually 
beget each other, with this difference, that we seldom meet with 
a great degree of health, which is not attended with a certain 
cheerfulness, but very often see cheerfulness where there is no 
great degree of health. 

Cheerfulness bears the same friendly regard to the mind as to 
the body ; it banishes all anxious care and discontent, soothes 
and composes the passions, and keeps the soul in a perpetual 
calm. 

If we consider the world in its subserviency to man, one 
would think it was made for our use; but if we consider it in its 
natural beauty and harmony, one would be apt to conclude it was 
made for our pleasure. The sun, which is the great soul of the 
universe, and produces all the necessaries of life, has a particular 
influence in cheering the mind of man, and making the heart 
glad. . 

Those several living creatures which are made for our service 
or sustenance, at the same time either fill the woods with their 
music, furnish us with game, or raise pleasing ideas in us by the 
delightfulness of their appearance. Fountains, lakes, and rivers, 
are as refreshing to the imagination, as to the soul through which 
they pass. 

There are writers of great distinction who have made it an 
argument for Providence, that the whole earth is covered with 
green, rather than with any other colour, as being such a right 
mixture of light and shade, that it comforts and strengthens the 
eye, instead of weakening or grieving it. For this reason, several 
painters have a green cloth hanging near them, to ease the eye 
upon, after too great an application to their colouring. A famous 
modern philosopher accounts for it in the following manner: — 
all colours that are most luminous, overpower and dissipate the 
animal spirits which are employed in sight; on the contrary, 
those that are more obscure, do not give the animal spirits a suf- 
ficient exercise ; whereas, the rays that produce in us the idea 



SECT. I.] READING. 57 

of green, fall upon the eye in such a due proportion, that they 
give the animal spirits their proper play, and by keeping up the 
struggle in a just balance, excite a very pleasing and agreeable 
sensation. Let the cause be what it will, the effect is certain ; 
for which reason, the poets ascribe to this particular colour the 
epithet of cheerfulness. 

To consider further this double end in the works of nature, 
and how they are at the same time both useful and entertaining, 
we find that the most important parts in the vegetable world are 
those which are the most beautiful. These are. the seeds by 
which the several races of plants are propagated and continued, 
and which are always lodged in flowers or blossoms. Nature 
seems to hide her principal design, and to be industrious in 
making the earth gay and delightful, while she is carrying on 
her great work, and intent upon her own preservation. The 
husbandman, after the same manner, is employed in laying out 
the whole country into a kind of garden or landscape, and 
making every thing smile about him, whilst, in reality, he 
thinks of nothing but of the harvest, and increase which is to 
arise from it. 

We may further observe how Providence has taken care to 
keep up this cheerfulness in the mind of man, by having formed 
it after such a manner, as to make it capable of conceiving de- 
light from several objects which seem to have very little use in 
them ; as from the wildness of rocks and deserts, and the like 
grotesque pans of nature. Those who are versed in philosophy, 
may still carry this consideration higher, by observing, that if 
matter had appeared to us endowed only with those real quali- 
ties which it actually possesses, it would have made but a very 
joyless and uncomfortable figure ; and why has Providence 
given it a power of producing in us such imaginary qualities, as 
tastes and colours, sounds and smells, heat and cold, but that 
man, while he is conversant in the lower stations of nature, 
might have his mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sen- 
sations ? In short, the whole universe is a kind of theatre, filled 
with objects that either raise in us pleasure, amusement, or 
admiration. 

The reader's own thoughts will suggest to him the vicis- 
situdes of day and night, the change of seasons, with all that 
variety of scenes which diversify the face of nature, and fill 
the mind with a perpetual succession of beautiful and pleasing 
images. 

I shall not here mention the several entertainments of art, 
with the pleasures of friendship, books, conversation, and other 
accidental diversions of life, because I would only take notice of 
such incitements to a cheerful temper as offer themselves to per- 
sons of all ranks and conditions, and which may sufficiently 



58 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

show us that Providence did not design this world should be 
filled with murmurs and repinings, or that the heart of man 
should be involved in gloom and melancholy. 

I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, as it is a vir- 
tue in which our countrymen are observed to be more deficient 
than any other nation. Melancholy is a kind of demon that 
haunts our island, and often conveys herself to us in an easterly 
wind. A celebrated French novelist, in opposition to those who 
begin their romances with the flowery seasons of the year, enters 
on his story thus : — "In the gloomy month of November, when 
the people of England hang and drown-themselves, a disconso- 
late lover walked out into the fields," &c. 

Every one ought to fence against the temper of his climate or 
constitution, and frequently to indulge in himself those considera- 
tions which may give him a serenity of mind, and enable him 
to bear up cheerfully against those little evils and misfortunes 
which are common to human nature, and which, by right im- 
provement of them, will produce a satiety of joy, and uninter- 
rupted happiness. 

At the same time that I would engage my readers to consider 
the world in its most agreeable lights, I must own there are 
many evils which naturally spring up amidst the entertainments 
that are provided for us : but these, if rightly considered, should 
be far from overcasting the mind with sorrow, or destroying 
that cheerfulness of temper which I have been recommending. 
This interspersion of evil with good, and pain with pleasure, in 
the works of nature, is very truly ascribed by Mr. Locke, in his 
Essay on Human Understanding, to a moral reason, in the fol- 
lowing words : — 

"Beyond all this, we may find another reason why God hath 
scattered up and down several degrees of pleasure and pain, in 
all the things that environ and affect us, and blended them to- 
gether in almost all that our thoughts and senses have to do 
with ; that we, finding imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of 
complete happiness in all the enjoyments which the creatures 
can afford us, might be led to seek it in the enjoyment of Him, 
with whom there is fulness of joy, and at whose right hand are 
pleasures for evermore." 



SECTION II. 

I.— The Bad Reader. 

Julius had acquired great credit at Cambridge, by his compo- 
sitions. They were elegant, animated and judicious; and 



SECT. II.] READING. 59 

several prizes, at different times, had been adjudged to him. An 
oration which he delivered the week before he left the university 
had been honoured with particular applause ; and on his return 
home, he was impatient to gratify his vanity, and to extend his 
reputation, by having it read to a number of his father's literary 
friends. 

A party was therefore collected ; and after dinner the manu- 
script was produced. Julius declined the office of reader, 
because he had contracted a hoarseness on his journey ; and a 
conceited young man, with great forwardness, offered his ser- 
vices. Whilst he was settling himself on his seat, licking his 
lips and adjusting his mouth, hawking, hemming, and making 
other ridiculous preparations for the performance which he had 
undertaken, a profound silence reigned through the company, 
the united effect of attention and expectation. The reader at 
length began ; but his tone of voice was so shrill and dissonant, 
his utterance so vehement, his pronunciation so affected, his em- 
phasis so injudicious, and his accents were so improperly placed, 
that good manners alone restrained the laughter of the audience. 
Julius was all this while upon the rack, and his arm was more 
than once extended to snatch his composition from the coxcomb 
who delivered it. But he proceeded with full confidence in his 
own elocution ; uniformly overstepping, as Shakspeare expresses 
it, the modesty of nature. 

When the oration was concluded, the gentlemen returned 
their thanks to the author ; but the compliments which they paid 
him were more expressive of politeness and civility, than the 
conviction of his merit. Indeed, the beauties of his composition 
had been converted, by bad reading, into blemishes ; and the 
sense of it rendered obscure, and even unintelligible. Julius 
and his father could not conceal their vexation and disappoint- 
ment: and the guests, perceiving that they laid them under a 
painful restraint, withdrew, as soon as decency permitted, to 
their respective habitations. 



II. — Respect due to Old Jlge. 

It happened at Athens, during a public representation of 
some play exhibited in honour of the commonwealth, that an 
old gentleman came too late for a place suitable to his age and 
quality. Many of the young gentlemen, who observed the dif- 
ficulty and confusion he was in, made signs to him that they 
would accommodate him, if he came where they sat. The good 
man bustled through the crowd accordingly ; but when he came 
to the seat to which he was invited, the jest was to sit close and 
expose him, as he stood out of countenance, to the whole au- 



60 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

dience. The frolic went round all the Athenian benches. But 
on those occasions, there were also particular places assigned for 
foreigners. When the good man skulked towards the boxes 
appointed for the Lacedemonians, that honest people, more vir- 
tuous than polite, rose up all to a man, and with the greatest 
respect, received him among them. The Athenians, being sud- 
denly touched with a sense of the Spartan virtue and their own 
degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause ; and the old man cried 
out, "The Athenians understand what is good, but the Lacede- 
monians practise it." 

III. t— Piety to God recommended to the Young. 

What I shall first recommend, is piety to God. With this I 
begin, both as the foundation of good morals, and as a disposition 
particularly graceful and becoming in youth. To be void of it, 
argues a cold heart, destitute of some of the best affections which 
belong to that age. Youth is the season of warm and generous 
emotions. The heart should then spontaneously rise into the 
admiration of what is great; glow with the love of what is fair 
and excellent; and melt at the discovery of tenderness and 
goodness. Where can any object be found so proper to kindle 
these affections, as the Father of the universe, and the Author 
of all felicity? Unmoved by veneration, can you contemplate 
that grandeur and majesty which his works every where dis- 
play ? Untouched by gratitude, can you view that profusion of 
good, which, in this pleasing season of life, his beneficent hand 
pours around you ? Happy in the love and affection of those 
with whom you are connected, look up to the Supreme Being, 
as the inspirer of all the friendship which has ever been shown 
you by others ; himself your best and your first friend ; formerly 
the supporter of your infancy, and the guide of your childhood ; 
now the guardian of your youth, and the hope of your coming 
years. View religious homage as a natural expression of grati- 
tude to him for all his goodness. Consider it as the service of 
the God of your fathers ; of him to whom your parents devoted 
you ; of him whom, in former ages, your ancestors honoured ; 
and by whom they are now rewarded and blessed in heaven. 
Connected with so many tender sensibilities of soul, let religion 
be with you ; not the cold and barren offspring of speculation, 
but the warm and vigorous dictate of the heart. 



IV. — Modesty and Docility. 

To piety, join modesty and docility, reverence to your parents, 
and submission to those who are your superiors in knowledge, 



SECT. II.] READING. 61 

in station, and in years. Dependence and obedience belong to 
youth. Modesty is one of its chief ornaments ; and has ever 
been esteemed a presage of rising merit. When entering on the 
career of life, it is your part not to assume the reins as yet into 
your hands ; but to commit yourselves to the guidance of the 
more experienced, and to become wise by the wisdom of those 
who have gone before you. Of all the follies incident to youth, 
there are none which either deform its present appearance, or 
blast the prospect of its future prosperity, more than self-conceit, 
presumption, and obstinacy. By checking its natural progress 
in improvement, they fix it in long immaturity ; and frequently 
produce mischiefs which can never be repaired. Yet these are 
vices too commonly found among the young. Big with enter- 
prise, and elated by hope, they resolve to trust for success to 
none but themselves. Full of their own abilities, they deride 
the admonitions which are given them by their friends, as the 
timorous suggestions of age. Too wise to learn, too impatient 
to deliberate, too forward to be restrained, they plunge, with pre- 
cipitant indiscretion, into the midst of all the dangers with which 
life abounds. 

V. — Sincerity. 

It is necessary to recommend to you sincerity and truth. 
These are the basis of every virtue. That, darkness of charac- 
ter, where we can see no heart ; those foldings of art, through 
which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, present an 
object unamiable in every season of life, but particularly odious 
in youth. If, at an age when the heart is warm, when the emo- 
tions are strong, and when nature is expected to show herself 
free and open, you can already smile and deceive, what are we 
to look for when you shall be longer hackneyed in the ways of 
men ; when interest shall have completed the obduration of your 
heart; and experience shall have improved you in all the arts 
of guile ? Dissimulation in j^outh is the forerunner of perfidy 
in old age. Its first appearance is the fated omen of growing 
depravity and future shame. It degrades parts and learning, 
obscures the lustre of every accomplishment, and sinks you into 
contempt with God and man. As you value, therefore, the 
approbation of heaven, or the esteem of the world, cultivate the 
love of truth. In all your proceedings, be direct and consistent. 
Ingenuity and candour possess the most powerful charm : they 
bespeak universal favour, and carry an apology for almost every 
failing. The path of truth is a plain and. safe path; that of 
falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from 
sincerity, it is not in your power to stop. One artifice unavoid- 
ably leads on to another; till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth 
6 



62 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

increases, you are left entangled in your own snare. Deceit 
discovers a little mind, which stops at temporary expedients, 
without rising to comprehensive views of conduct. It betrays, 
at the same time, a dastardly spirit. It is the resource of one 
who wants courage to avow his designs, or to rest upon himself. 
Whereas, openness of character displays that generous boldness 
which ought to distinguish youth. To set out in the world with 
no other principle than a crafty attention to interest, betokens 
one who is destined for creeping through the inferior walks of 
life : but to give an early preference to honour above gain, when 
they stand in competition ; to despise every advantage which 
cannot be attained without dishonest arts ; to brook no meanness, 
and to stoop to no dissimulation, are the indications of a great 
mind, the presages of future eminence and distinction in life. 
At the same time, this virtuous sincerity is perfectly consistent 
with the most prudent vigilance and caution. It is opposed to 
cunning, not to true wisdom. It is not the simplicity of a weak 
and improvident, but the candour of an enlarged and noble 
mind ; of one who scorns deceit because he accounts it both base 
and unprofitable ; and who seeks no disguise, because he needs 
none to hide him. 

VI. — Benevolence and Humanity. 

Youth is the proper season for cultivating the benevolent and 
humane affections. As a great part of your happiness is to 
depend on the connexions which you form with others, it is of 
high importance that you acquire betimes the temper and the 
manners which will render such connexions comfortable. Let a 
sense of justice be the foundation of all your social qualities. In 
your most early intercourse with the world, and even in your 
youthful amusements, let no unfairness be found. Engrave on 
your mind that sacred rule of "doing in all things to others 
according to your wish that they should do unto you." For 
this end, impress yourselves with a deep sense of the original 
and natural equality of men. Whatever advantage of birth or 
fortune you possess, never display them with an ostentatious 
superiority. Leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the 
intercourse of more advanced years. At present it becomes you 
to act among your companions as man with man. Remember 
how unknown to you are the vicissitudes of the world ; and how 
often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men 
once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in 
future years. Compassion is an emotion of which you ought 
never to be ashamed. Graceful in youth is the tear of sym- 
pathy, and the heart that melts at the tale of wo. Let not ease 
and indulgences contract your affections, and wrap you up in 



SECT. II.] READING. 63 

selfish enjoyment. Accustom yourselves to think of the dis- 
tresses of human life ; of the solitary cottage, the dying parent, 
and the weeping orphan. Never sport with pain and distress in 
any of your amusements, nor treat even the meanest insect with 
wanton cruelty. 



VII. — Industry and Application. 

Diligence, industry, and proper application of time, are 
material duties of the young. To no purpose are they endowed 
with the best abilities, if they want activity for exerting them. 
Unavailing, in this case, will be every direction that can be given 
them, either for their temporal or spiritual welfare. In youth 
the habits of industry are most easily acquired ; in youth the 
incentives to it are strongest, from ambition and from duty, from 
emulation and hope, from alltfie prospects which the beginning 
of life affords. If, dead to these calls, you already languish in 
slothful inaction, what will be able to quicken the more sluggish 
current of advancing years ? Industry is not only the instru- 
ment of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. Nothing 
is so opposite to true enjoyment of life, as the relaxed and feeble 
state of an indolent mind. He who is a stranger to industry, 
may possess, but he cannot enjoy. For it is labour only which 
gives the relish to pleasure. It is the appointed vehicle of every 
good man. It is the indispensable condition of our possessing a 
sound mind in a sound body. Sloth is so inconsistent with both, 
that it is hard to determine whether it be a greater foe to virtue, 
or to health and happiness. Inactive as it is in itself, its effects 
are fatally powerful. Though it appear a slowly flowing stream, 
yet it undermines all that is stable and flourishing. It not only 
saps the foundation of every virtue, but pours upon you a deluge 
of crimes and evils. It is like water, which first putrefies by 
stagnation, and then sends up noxious vapours, and fills the 
atmosphere with death. Fly, therefore, from idleness, as the 
certain parent both of guilt and ruin. And under idleness I 
include, not mere inaction only, but all that circle of trifling 
occupations in which too many saunter away their youth ; per- 
petually engaged in frivolous society or public amusements ; in 
the labours of dress, or the ostentation of their persons. Is this 
the foundation which you lay for future usefulness and esteem? 
By such accomplishments do you hope to recommend yourselves 
to the thinking part of the world, and to answer the expectations 
of your friends and your country ? Amusements youth require ; 
it were vain, it were cruel to prohibit them. But though allow- 
able as the relaxation, they are most culpable as the business of 
the young. For they then become the gulf of time, and the 



64 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

poison of the mind. They foment bad passions. They weaken 
the manly powers. They sink the native vigour of youth into 
contemptible effeminacy. 

VIII. — Proper Employment of Time. 

Redeeming your time from such dangerous waste, seek to fill 
it with employments which you may review with satisfaction. 
The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honourable 
occupations of youth. The desire of it discovers a liberal mind, 
and is connected with many accomplishments and many virtues. 
But though your train of life should not lead you to study, the 
course of education always furnishes proper employments to u 
well-disposed mind. Whatever you pursue, be emulous to 
excel. Generous ambition and sensibility to praise, are, espe- 
cially at your age, among the marks of virtue. Think not that 
any affluence of fortune, or any elevation of rank, exempts you 
from the duties of application and industry. Industry is the law 
of our being; it is the demand of nature, of reason, and of God. 
Remember, always, that the years which now pass over your 
heads leave permanent memorials behind them. From the 
thoughtless minds they may escape; but they remain in the 
remembrance of God. They form an important part of the 
register of your life. They will hereafter bear testimony, either 
for or against you, at that day, when for all your actions, but 
particularly for the employments of youth, you must give an 
account to God. Whether your future course is destined to be 
long or short, after this manner it should commence, and if it con- 
tinue to be thus conducted, its conclusion, at what time soever it 
arrives, will not be inglorious or unhappy. 



IX. — The True Patriot. 

Andrew Doria, of Genoa, the greatest sea-captain of the age 
he lived in, set his country free from the yoke of France. Be- 
loved by his fellow-citizens, and supported by the emperor 
Charles V., it was in his power to assume sovereignty without 
the least struggle. But he preferred the virtuous satisfaction of 
giving liberty to his countrymen. He declared in public assem- 
bly, that the happiness of seeing them once more restored to 
liberty was to him a full reward for all his services ; that he 
claimed no pre-eminence above his equals, but remitted to them 
absolutely to settle a proper form of government. Doria's mag- 
nanimity put an end to factions that had long vexed the state ; 
and a form of government was established with great unanimity, 
the same that, with very little alteration, subsists at present. 



sect.il] reading. 65 

Doria lived to a great age, beloved and honoured by his country- 
men ; and without ever making a single step out of his rank as 
a private citizen, he retained to his dying hour great influence 
in the republic. Power, founded on Jove and gratitude, was to 
him more pleasant than what is founded on sovereignty. His 
memory is reverenced by the Genoese ; and, in their histories 
and public monuments, there is bestowed on him the most 
honourable of all titles — Father of his Country, and Restorer 
of its Liberty. 



X. — On Contentment. 

Contentment produces, in some measure, all those effects 
which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he calls the philo- 
sopher's stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same 
thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the 
disquietudes arising out of a man's mind, body or fortune, it 
makes him easy under them. It has, indeed, a kindly influence 
on the soul of a man, in respect of every being to whom he 
stands related. It extinguishes all murmur, repining, and in- 
gratitude towards that Being who has allotted him his part to act 
in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every ten- 
dency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein he 
is placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and perpetual 
serenity to all his thoughts. 

Among the many methods which might be made use of for 
acquiring of this virtue, I shall only mention the two following. 
First of all, a man should always consider how much he has 
more than he wants ; and secondly, how much more unhappy 
he might be than he really is. 

First of all, a man should always consider how much he has 
more than he wants. I am wonderfully well pleased with the 
reply which Aristippus made to one who condoled him upon the 
loss of a farm : " Why," said he, "I have three farms still, and 
you have but one, so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you 
than you for me." On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to 
consider what they have lost, than what they possess ; and to fix 
their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than 
on those who are under greater difficulties. All the real plea- 
sures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass ; but it is 
the humour of mankind to be always looking forward, and strain- 
ing after one who has got the start of them in wealth and honour. 
For this reason, as there are none can be properly called rich 
who have not more than they want, there are few rich men, in 
any of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, 
who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more 
wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons of higher rank 
6* E 



66 LESSON SIN [PART I. 

live in a kind of splendid poverty, and are perpetually wanting; 
because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they 
endeavour to outvie one another in shadows and appearances. 
Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a great deal of rnirth, 
this silly game that is playing over their heads ; and by contract- 
ing their desires, enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others 
are always in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous chase after 
imaginary pleasure cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the 
great source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let 
a man's estate be what it will, he is a poor man if he does not 
live within it, and naturally sets himself to sale to any one who 
can give him his price. When Pittacus, after the death of his 
brother, who had left him a good estate, was offered a great sum 
of money by the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness, 
but told him he had already more by half than he knew what to 
do with. In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury 
to poverty; or, to give the thought a more agreeable turn, "Con- 
tent is natural wealth," says Socrates; to which I shall add, 
Luxury is artificial poverty. I shall therefore recommend to the 
consideration of those who are always aiming after superfluous 
and imaginary enjoyments, and will not be at the trouble of con- 
tracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion, the philoso- 
pher : namely, " That no man has so much care as he who en- 
deavours after so much happiness." 

In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much 
more unhappy he might be than he really is. The former con- 
sideration took in all those who are sufficiently provided with the 
means to make themselves easy ; this regards such as actually 
lie under some pressure or misfortune. These may receive great 
alleviation from such a comparison as the unhappy person may 
make between himself and others, or between the misfortune 
which he suffers, and the greater misfortunes which might have 
befallen him. 

I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon breaking 
his leg by a fall from the mainmast, told the standers by, it was 
a great mercy it was not his neck. To which, since I am got 
into quotations, give me leave to add the saying of an old philo- 
sopher, who, after having invited some of his friends to dine with 
him, was ruffled by his wife, who came into the room in a pas- 
sion, and threw down the table that stood before them : "Every 
one," says he, "has his calamity, and he is a happy man that 
has no greater than this." We find an instance to the same pur- 
pose in the life of Doctor Hammond, written by Bishop Fell. 
As this good man was troubled with a complication of distempers, 
when he had the gout upon him, he used to thank God that it 
was not the stone ; and when he had the stone, that lie had not 
both these distempers on him at the same time. 



- JLCT. II.] READING. 67 

I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that there was 
never any system, besides that of Christianity, which would effec- 
tually produce in the mind of man the virtue I have been hitherto 
speaking of. In order to make us contented with our condition, 
many of the present philosophers tell us that our discontent only 
hurts ourselves, without being able to make any alteration in our 
circumstances ; others, that whatever evil befalls us is derived to 
us by fatal necessity, to which the gods themselves are subject ; 
while others very gravely tell the man who is miserable, that it 
is necessary he should be so, to keep up the harmony of the 
universe, and the scheme of Providence would be troubled and 
perverted were he otherwise. These, and the like considera- 
tions, rather silence than satisfy a man. They may show him 
that his discontent is unreasonable, but are by no means suffi- 
cient to relieve it. They rather give despair than consolation. 
In a word, a man might reply to one of these comforters, as 
Augustus did to his friend, who advised him not to grieve for 
the death of a person whom he loved, because his grief could 
not fetch him again : " It is for that very reason," said the em- 
peror, "that I grieve." 

On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard to human 
nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of bet- 
tering his condition : nay, it shows him that the bearing of his 
afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally end in the removal 
of them. It makes him easy here, because it can make him 
happy hereafter. 



XI. — Needlework recommended to the Ladies. 

** I have a couple of nieces under my direction, who so often 
run gadding about, that I do not know where to have them. 
Their dress, their tea, and their visits, take up all their time, and 
they go to bed as tired w T ith doing nothing, as I am after quilting 
a whole underpetticoat. The whole time they are not idle, is 
while they read your Spectators ; which being dedicated to the in- 
terests of virtue, I desire you to recommend the long-neglected art 
of needlework. Those hours which, in this age, are thrown away 
in dress, play, visits, and the like, were employed, in my time, 
in writing out receipts, or working beds, chairs, and hangings, 
for the family. For my part, I have plied my needle these fifty 
years, and by my good will would never have it out of my hand. 
It grieves my heart to see a couple of proud idle flirts sipping 
their tea for a whole afternoon, in a great room hung round with 
the industry of their great-grandmother. Pray, sir, take the 
laudable mystery of embroidery into your serious consideration ; 



68 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

and as you have a great deal of the virtue of the last age in you, 
continue your endeavours to reform the present. 

" I am, &c." 

In obedience to the commands of my venerable correspondent, 
I have duly weighed this important subject, and promise myseif, 
from the arguments here laid down, that all the fine ladies in 
England will be ready, as soon as their mourning is over, to 
appear covered with the work of their own hands. 

What a delightful entertainment must it be to the fair sex, 
whom their native modesty, and the tenderness of men towards 
them, exempts from public business, to pass their hours in imi- 
tating fruits and flowers, and transplanting all the beauties of 
nature into their own dress, or raising a new creation in their 
clothes and apartments. How pleasing is the amusement of 
walking among the shades and groves planted by themselves, in 
surveying heroes slain by their needles, or little cupids, which 
they have brought into the world without pain. 

This is, methinks, the most proper way wherein a lady can 
show a fine genius, and I cannot forbear wishing that several 
writers of that sex had chosen rather to apply themselves to 
tapestry than rhyme. Your pastoral poetesses may vent their 
fancy in rural landscapes, and place despairing shepherds under 
silken willows, or drown them in a stream of mohair. The 
heroic writers may work up battles as successfully, and inflame 
them with gold, or stain them with crimson. Even those who 
have only a turn to a song or an epigram, may put many valu- 
able stitches into a purse, and crowd a thousand graces into a 
pair of garters. 

If I may, without breach of good manners, imagine that any 
pretty creature is void of genius, and would perform her part 
herein but very awkwardly, I must nevertheless insist upon her 
working, if it be only to keep her out of harm's way. 

Another argument for busying good women in works of fancy 
is, because it takes them ofTfrom scandal, the usual attendant of 
tea-tables, and all other inactive scenes of life. While they are 
forming their birds and beasts, their neighbours will be allowed 
to be the fathers of their own children ; and whig and tory will 
be but seldom mentioned, where the great dispute is whether 
blue or red is the more proper colour. How much greater glory 
would Sophronia do the General, if she would choose rather to 
work the battles of Blenheim in tapestry, than signalize herself 
with so much vehemence against those who are Frenchmen in 
their hearts. 

. A third reason which I shall mention, is the profit that is 
brought to the family where these pretty arts are encouraged. 
It is manifest that this way of life not only keeps fair ladies from 



SECT. II.] READING. 69 

running out into expenses, but it is, at the same time, an actual 
improvement. How memorable would that matron be, who 
shall have it inscribed upon her monument, " that she wrote out 
the whole Bible in tapestry, and died in a good old age, after hav- 
ing covered three hundred yards of wall in the mansion-house." 
These premises being considered, I humbly submit the follow- 
ing proposals to all mothers in Great Britain : 

I. That no young virgin whatsoever be allowed to receive the 
addresses of her first lover, but in a suit of her own embroidering. 

II. That before every fresh servant, she be obliged to appear 
with a new stomacher at the least. 

III. That no one be actually married, until she has the child- 
bed, pillows, &c, ready stitched ; as likewise the mantle for the 
boy quite finished. 

These laws, if I mistake not, would effectually restore the 
decayed art of needlework, and make the virgins of Great Britain 
exceedingly nimble-fingered in their business. 

XII. — Horrors of War. 

The first great obstacle, then, to the extinction of war, is the 
way in which the heart of man is carried off from its barbarities 
and its horrors, by the splendour of its deceitful accompaniments. 
There is a feeling of the sublime in contemplating the shock of 
armies, just as there is in contemplating the devouring energy 
of a tempest, and this so elevates and engrosses the whole man, 
that his eye is blind to the tears of bereaved parents, and his 
ear is deaf to the piteous moan of the dying, and the shriek of 
their desolated families. There is a gracefulness in the picture 
of a youthful, warrior burning for distinction on the field, and 
lured by this generous aspiration to the deepest of the animated 
throng, where, in the fell work of death, the opposing sons of 
valour struggle for a remembrance and a name ; and this side of 
the picture is so much the exclusive object of our regard, as to 
disguise from our view the mangled carcasses of the fallen, and 
the writhing agonies of the hundreds and the hundreds more 
who have been laid on the cold ground, where they are left to 
languish and to die. There no eye pities them. No sister is 
there to weep over them. There no gentle hand is present to 
ease the dying posture, or bind up the wounds, which, in the 
maddening fury of the combat, have been given and received by 
the children of one common father. There death spreads its 
pale ensigns over every countenance, and when night comes on, 
and darkness around them, how many a despairing wretch must 
take up with the bloody field as the untended bed of his last 
sufferings, without one friend to bear the message of tenderness 
to his distant home — without one companion to close his eyes. 



70 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

I avow it. On every side of me I see causes at work which 
go to spread a most delusive colouring over war, and to remove 
its shocking barbarities to the back ground of our contemplations 
altogether. I see it in the history which tells me of the superb 
appearance of the troops, and the brilliancy of their successive 
charges. I see it in the poetry which lends the magic of its 
numbers to the narrative of blood, and transports its many ad- 
mirers, as by its images, and its figures, and its nodding plumes 
of chivalry, it throws its treacherous embellishments over a scene 
of legalized slaughter. I see it in the music which represents 
the progress- of the battle ; and where, after being inspired by 
the trumpet-notes of preparation, the whole beauty and tender- 
ness of a drawing-room are seen to bend over the sentimental 
entertainment ; nor do I hear the utterance of a single sigh to 
interrupt the death-tones of the thickening contest, and the 
moans of the wounded men as they fade away upon the ear, and 
sink. into lifeless silence. All, all goes to prove what strange 
and half-sighted creatures we are. Were it not so, war could 
never have been seen in any other aspect than that of unmingled 
hatefulness ; and I can look to nothing but to the progress of 
christian sentiment upon earth, to arrest the strong current of its 
popular and prevailing partiality for war. Then only will an 
imperious sense of duty lay the check of severe principle on all 
the subordinate tastes and faculties of our nature. Then will 
glory be reduced to its right estimate, and the wakeful benevo- 
lence of the gospel, chasing away every spell, will be turned by 
the treachery of no delusion whatever, from its simple but 
sublime enterprises for the good of the species. Then the reign 
of truth and quietness will be ushered into the world, and war, 
cruel, atrocious, unrelenting war, will be stripped of its many and 
its bewildering fascinations. 



XIII.— -On Pride. 

If there be any thing that makes human nature appear ridi- 
culous to beings of superior faculties, it must be pride. They 
know so well the vanity of those imaginary perfections that swell 
the heart of man, and of those little supernumerary advantages, 
whether in birth, fortune, or title, which one man enjoys above 
another, that it must certainly very much astonish, if it does not 
very much divert them, when they see a mortal puffed up, and 
valuing himself above his neighbours, on any of these accounts, 
at the same time that he is obnoxious to all the common calami- 
ties of the species. 

To set this thought in its true light, we will fancy, if you 
please, that yonder molehill is inhabited by reasonable creatures, 



SECT. II.] READING. 7L 

and that every pismire (his shape and way of life only excepted) 
is endowed with human passions. How should we smile to hear 
one give us an account of the pedigrees, distinctions, and titles, 
that reign among them? Observe how the whole swarm divide, 
and make way for the pismire that passes through them ; you 
must understand he is an emmet of quality, and has better blood 
in his veins than any pismire in the molehill. Don't you see 
how sensible he is of it, how slow he marches forward, how the 
whole rabble of ants keep their distance ? Here you may ob- 
serve one placed upon a little eminence, and looking down on a 
long row of labourers. He is the richest insect on this side the 
hillock ; he has a walk of half a yard in length, and a quarter of 
an inch in breadth ; he keeps a hundred menial servants, and 
has at least fifteen barleycorns in his granary. He is now 
chiding and beslaving the emmet that stands before him, and 
who, for all that we can discover, is as good an emmet as him- 
self. 

But here comes an insect of figure ! Don't you take notice 
of a little white straw he carries in his mouth ? That straw, you 
must understand, he would not part with for the longest tract 
about the molehill. Did you but know what he has undergone 
to purchase it ! See how the ants of all qualities and conditions 
swarm about him. Should this straw drop out of his mouth, 
you would see all this numerous circle of attendants follow the 
next that took it up, and leave the discarded insect, or run over 
his back to come at its successor. 

If, now, you have a mind to see all the ladies of the molehill, 
observe first the pismire that listens to the emmet on her left 
hand, at the same time that she seems to turn away her head 
from him. He tells this poor insect she is a goddess, that her 
eyes are brighter than the sun, that life and death are at her dis- 
posal. She believes him, and gives herself a thousand little airs 
upon it. Mark the vanity of the pismire on your left hand. 
She can scarce crawl with age ; but you must know she values 
herself upon her birth ; and, if you mind, spurns at every one 
that comes within her reach. The little nimble coquette that is 
running along by the side of her, is a wit. She has broke many 
a pismire's heart. Do but observe what a drove of lovers are 
running after her. 

We will here finish this imaginary scene : but first of all, to 
draw the parallel closer, will suppose, if you please, that death 
comes upon the molehill, in the shape of a cock-sparrow, who 
picks up, without distinction, the pismire of quality and his flat- 
terers, the pismire of substance and his day labourers, the white 
straw officer and his sycophants, with all the goddesses, wits, 
and beauties of the molehill. 

May we not imagine that beings of superior natures and per- 



72 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

fections regard all the instances of pride and vanity, among our 
own species, in the same kind of view, when they take a survey 
of those who inhabit the earth, or, in the language of an inge- 
nious French poet, of those pismires that people this heap of 
dirt, which human vanity has divided into climates and regions. 

XIV. — Journal of the Life of Alexander Severus. 

Alexander rose early. The first moments of the day were 
consecrated to private devotion : but as he deemed the service 
of mankind the most acceptable worship of the gods, the greatest 
part of his morning hours w r ere employed in council, where he 
discussed public affairs, and determined private causes, with a 
patience and discretion above his years. The dryness of busi- 
ness was enlivened by the charms of literature ; and a portion 
of time was always set apart for his favourite studies of poetry, 
history, and philosophy. The works of Virgil and Horace, the 
republics of Plato and Cicero, formed his taste, enlarged his 
understanding, and gave him the noblest ideas of man and of 
government. The exercises of the body succeeded to those of the 
mind ; and Alexander, who was tall, active, and robust, surpassed 
most of his equals in the gymnastic arts. Refreshed by the use 
of his bath and a slight dinner, he resumed, with new vigour, the 
business of the day; and till the hour of supper, the principal 
meal of the Romans, he was attended by his secretaries, with 
whom he read and answered the multitude of letters, memorials, 
and petitions, that must have been addressed to the mast-er of the 
greatest part of the world. His table was served with the most 
frugal simplicity ; and whenever he was at liberty to consult his 
own inclination, the company consisted of a few select friends, 
men of learning and virtue. His dress was plain and modest ; 
his demeanor courteous and affable. At the proper hours, his 
palace was open to all his subjects ; but the voice of a crier was 
heard, as in the Eleusinlan mysteries, pronouncing the same 
salutary admonition : "Let none enter these holy walls, unless 
he is conscious of a pure and innocent mind." 

XV. — Character of Julius Csesar. 

Cjesar was endowed with every great and noble quality that 
could exalt human nature, and give a man the ascendant in 
society; formed to excel in peace as well as war, provident in 
council, fearless in action, and executing what he had resolved 
with an amazing celerity; generous beyond measure to his 
friends, placable to his enemies; for parts, learning, and elo- 
quence, scarce inferior to any man. His orations were admired 
for two qualities, which are seldom found together, strength and 



SECT. II.] READING. 73 

elegance. Cicero ranks him among the greatest orators that 
Rome ever bred : and Q,uintilian says, that he spoke with the 
same force with which he fought ; and if he had devoted him- 
self to the bar, would have been the only man capable of rival- 
ling Cicero. Nor was he a master only of the politer arts, but 
conversant also with the most abstruse and critical parts of learn- 
ing; and, among other works which he published, addressed two 
books to Cicero, on the analogy of language, or the art of speak- 
ing and writing correctly. He was a most liberal patron of wit 
and learning, wheresoever they were found ; and out of his love 
of these talents, would readily pardon those who had employed 
them against himself; rightly judging, that by making such men 
his friends, he should draw praises from the same fountain from 
which he had been aspersed. His capital passions were ambi- 
tion and love of pleasure ; which he indulged, in their turns, to 
the greatest excess. Yet the first was always predominant ; to 
which he could easily sacrifice all the charms of the second, and 
draw pleasure even from toils and dangers, wmen they minis- 
tered to his glory. For he thought tyranny, as Cicero says, the 
greatest of goddesses ; and had frequently in his mouth a verse 
of Euripides, which expressed the image of his soul, That if 
right and justice were ever to be violated, they were to be vio- 
lated for the sake of reigning. This was the chief end and pur- 
pose of his life ; the scheme that he had formed from his early 
youth ; so that, as Cato truly declared of him, he came with 
sobriety and meditation to the subversion of the republic. He 
used to say that there were two things necessary to acquire and 
to support power — soldiers and money; which yet depended 
mutually on each other: with money, therefore, he provided 
soldiers, and with soldiers extorted money ; and was, of all men, 
the most rapacious in plundering both friends and foes ; sparing 
neither prince, nor state, nor temple, nor even private persons, 
who were known to possess any share of treasure. His great 
abilities would necessarily have made him one of the first citizens 
of Rome ; but, disdaining the condition of a subject, he could 
never rest till he had made himself a monarch. In acting this 
last part, his usual prudence seemed to fail him ; as if the height 
to which he was mounted had turned his head, and made him 
giddy: for, by a vain ostentation of -power, he destroyed the sta- 
bility of it ; and as men shorten life by living too fast, so, by an 
intemperance of reigning, he brought his reign to a violent end. 

XVI. — On Mispent Time. ' 

1 was yesterday comparing the industry of man with that of 
other creatures ; in which I could not but observe, that, notwith- 
standing we are obliged by duty to keep ourselves in constant 

7 



74 LESS0NS1N [PART I. 

employ, after the same manner as inferior animals are prompted 
to it by instinct, we fall very short of them in this particular. 
We are here the more inexcusable, because there is a greater 
variety of business to which we may apply ourselves. Reason 
opens to us a large field of affairs, which other creatures are not 
capable of. Beasts of prey, and, I believe, of all other kinds, in 
their natural state of being, divide their time between action and 
rest. They are always at work or asleep. In short, their 
waking hours are wholly taken up in seeking after their food, or 
in consuming it. The human species only, to the great reproach 
of our natures, are filled with complaints, that, " the day hangs 
heavy on them," that " they do not know what to do with them- 
selves," that "they are at a loss how to pass away their time ;" 
with many of the like shameful murmurs, which we often find 
in the mouths of those who are styled reasonable beings. How 
monstrous are such expressions, among creatures who have the 
labours of the mind, as well as those of the body, to furnish them 
with proper employments ; who, besides the business of their 
proper callings and professions, can apply themselves to the du- 
ties of religion, to meditation, to the reading of useful books, to 
discourse ; in a word, who may exercise themselves in the 
unbounded pursuits of knowledge and virtue, and every hour of 
their lives make themselves wiser or better than they were 
before. 

After having been taken up for some time in this course of 
thought, I diverted myself with a book, according to my usual 
custom, in order to unbend my mind before I went to sleep. 
The book I made use of on this occasion was Lucian, where I 
amused my thoughts, for about an hour, among the dialogues 
of the dead ; which, in all probability, produced the following- 
dream : — 

I was conveyed, methought, into the entrance of the infernal 
regions, where I saw Rhadamanthus, one of the judges of the 
dead, seated on his tribunal. On his left hand stood the 
keeper of Erebus, on his right, the keeper of Elysium. I 
was told he sat upon women that day, there being several 
of the sex lately arrived, who had not yet their mansions 
assigned them. I was surprised to hear him ask every 
one of them the same question, namely, what they had been do- 
ing? Upon this question being proposed to the whole assembly, 
they stared one upon another, as not knowing what to answer. 
He then interrogated each of them separately. Madam, says 
he to the first of -them, you have been upon the earth about fifty 
years : what have you been doing there all this while ? Doing, 
says she ; really, I do not know what I have been doing: I de- 
sire I may have time given me to recollect. After about half an 
hour's pause, she told him that she had been playing at crimp ; 



SECT. II.] READING. 75 

upon which Rhadamanthus beckoned to the keeper on his left 
hand to take her into custody. And you, madam, says the judge, 
that look with such a soft and languishing air ; I think you set 
out for this place in your nine and twentieth year, what have 
you been doing all this while ? I had a great deal of business 
on my hands, says she ; being taken up the the first twelve years 
of my life in dressing a jointed baby, and all the remaining part 
of it in reading plays and romances. Very well, says he, you 
have employed your time to good purpose. Away with her. 
The next was a plain country woman : Well, mistress, says 
Rhadamanthus, and what have you been doing? An't please 
your worship, says she, I did not live quite forty years ; and in 
that time brought my husband seven daughters, made him nine 
thousand cheeses, and left my youngest daughter with him, to 
look after his house in my absence ; and who, I may venture to 
say, is as pretty a housewife as any in the country. Rhada- 
manthus smiled at the simplicity of the good woman, and ordered 
the keeper of Elysium to take her into his care. And you, fair 
lady, says he, what have you been doing these five and thirty 
years? I have been doing no hurt, I assure you, sir, said she. 
That is well, said he : but what good have you been doing ? 
The lady was in great confusion at this question ; and not 
knowing what to answer, the two keepers leaped out to seize 
her at the same time ; the one took her by the hand to convey 
her to Elysium, the other caught hold of her to carry her away 
to Erebus. But Rhadamanthus observing an ingenious modesty 
in her countenance and behaviour, bid them both let her loose, 
and set her aside for reexamination when he was more at leisure. 
An old woman, of a proud and sour look, presented herself next 
at the bar; and being asked what she had been doing: Truly, 
said she, I lived threescore and ten years in a very wicked 
world, and was so angry at the behaviour of a parcel of young 
flirts, that I passed most of my last years in condemning the fol- 
lies of the times. I was every day blaming the silly conduct of 
people about me, in order to deter those I conversed with from 
falling into the like errors and miscarriages. Very well, says 
Rhadamanthus, but did you keep the same watchful eye over 
your own actions ? Why, truly, said she, I was so taken up 
with publishing the faults of others, that I had no time to con- 
sider my own. Madam, says Rhadamanthus, be pleased to file 
off to the left, and make room for the venerable matron that 
stands behind you. Old gentlewoman, says he, I think you are 
fourscore : you have heard the question — What have you been 
doing so long in the world ? Ah, sir, said she, I have been do- 
ing what I should not have done ; but I had made a firm reso- 
lution to have changed my life, if I had not been snatched off by 
an untimely end. Madam, says he, you will please to follow 



76 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

your leader: and spying another of the same age, interrogated 
her in the same form. To which the matron replied, I have 
been the wife of a husband who was as dear to me in his old 
age as in his youth. I have been a mother, and very happy in 
my children, whom I endeavoured to bring up in every thing 
that is good. My eldest son is blessed by the poor, and beloved 
by every one that knows him. I lived within my own family, 
and left it much more wealthy than I found it. Rhadamanthus, 
who knew the value of the old lady, smiled upon her in such a 
manner, that the keeper of Elysium, who knew his office, 
reached out his hand to her. He no sooner touched her, but 
her wrinkles vanished, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed 
with blushes, and she appeared in full bloom and beauty. A 
young woman, observing that this officer, who conducted the 
happy to Elysium, was so great a beautifier, longed to be in his 
hands : so that, pressing through the crowd, she was the next 
that appeared at the bar : and being asked what she had been 
doing the five-and-twenty years that she had passed in the 
world : I have endeavoured, says she, ever since I came to 
years of discretion, to make myself lovety, and gain admirers. 
In order to it, I passed my time in bottling up May-dew, invent- 
ing whitewashes, mixing colours, cutting out patches, consulting 
my glass, suiting my complexion. Rhadamanthus, without 
hearing her out, gave the sign to take her off. Upon the ap- 
proach of the keeper of Erebus, her colour faded, her face 
was puckered up with wrinkles, and her whole person lost in 
deformity. 

I was then surprised with the distant sound of a whole troop 
of females, that came forward, laughing, singing, and dancing. 
I was very desirous to know the reception they would meet 
with, and, withal, was very apprehensive that Rhadaman hus 
would spoil their mirth ; but at their nearer approach, the noise 
grew so very great that it awakened me. 

I lay some time reflecting in myself on the oddness of this 
dream ; and could not forbear asking my own heart, what I was 
doing? I answered myself, that I was writing Guardians. 
If my readers make as good a use of this work as I design they 
should, I hope it will never be imputed to me as work that is 
vain and unprofitable. 

I shall conclude this paper with recommending to them the 
same short self-examination. If every one of them frequently 
lays his hand upon his heart, and considers what he is doing, it 
will check him in all the idle, or what is worse, the vicious mo- 
ments of his life ; lift up his mind when it is running on in a 
series of indifferent actions, and encourage him when he is en- 
gaged in those which are virtuous and laudable. In a word, it 
will very much alleviate that guilt, which the best of men have 



SECT. II.] READING. 77 

reason to acknowledge in their daily confessions, of "leaving 
undone those things which they ought to have done, and of do- 
ing those things which they ought not to have done." 

XVII. — Character of Francis I. 

Francis died at Rambouiliet, on the last day of March, in the 
fifty-third year of his age, and the thirty-third of his reign. 
During twenty-eight years of that time, an avowed rivalship 
subsisted between him and the emperor; which involved, not 
only their own dominions, but the greater part of Europe, in 
wars, prosecuted with more violent animosity, and drawn out to 
a greater length than had been known in any former period. 
Many circumstances contributed to both. Their animosity was 
founded in opposition of interests, heightened by personal emula- 
tion, and exasperated, not only by mutual injuries, but by recip- 
rocal insults. At the same time, whatever advantage one seemed 
to possess towards gaining the ascendant, was wonderfully bal- 
anced by some favourable circumstances peculiar to the other. 
The emperor's dominions were of great extent; the French 
king's lay more compact : Francis governed his kingdom with 
absolute power ; that of Charles was limited, but he supplied 
the want of authority by address : the troops of the former were 
more impetuous and enterprising ; those of the latter, better dis- 
ciplined and more patient of fatigue. 

The talents and abilities of the two monarchs were as different 
as the advantages which they possessed, and contributed no less 
to prolong the contest between them. Francis took his resolu- 
tions suddenly ; prosecuted them at first with warmth ; and 
pushed them into execution with a most adventurous courage ; 
but, being destitute of the perseverance necessary to surmount 
difficulties, he often abandoned his designs, or relaxed the vigour 
of pursuit, from impatience, and sometimes from levity. Charles 
deliberated long, and determined with coolness ; but having 
once fixed his plan, he adhered to it with inflexible obstinacy ; 
and neither danger nor discouragement could turn him aside 
from the execution of it. 

The success of their enterprises was as different as their char- 
acters, and was uniformly influenced by them. Francis, by his 
impetuous activity, often disconcerted the emperor's best laid 
schemes ; Charles, by a more calm, but steady prosecution of 
his designs, checked the rapidity of his rival's career, and baffled 
or repulsed his most vigorous efforts. The former, at the open- 
ing of a war or a campaign, broke in upon his enemy with the 
violence of a torrent, and carried all before him ; the latter, wait- 
ing until he saw the force of his rival begin to abate, recovered, 

in the end, not only ail that he had lost, but made new acquisi- 

7 # 



78 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

tions. Few of the French monarch's attempts towards conquest, 
whatever promising aspect they might wear at first, were con- 
ducted to a happy issue ; many of the emperor's enterprises, 
even after they appeared desperate and impracticable, terminated 
in the most prosperous manner. 

The degree, however, of their comparative merit and reputa- 
tion has not been fixed, either by strict scrutiny into their abili- 
ties for government, or by an impartial consideration of the great- 
ness and success of their undertakings ; and Francis is one of 
those monarchs who occupy a higher rank in the temple of fame 
than either their talents or performances entitle them to hold. 
This pre-eminence he owed to many different circumstances. 
The superiority which Charles acquired by the victory of Pavia, 
and which, from that period, he preserved through the remain- 
der of his reign, was so manifest, that Francis' struggle against 
his exorbitant and growing dominion was viewed, by most of the 
other powers, not only with that partiality which naturally arises 
from those who gallantly maintain an unequal contest, but with, 
the favour due to one who was resisting a common enemy, and 
endeavouring to set bounds to a monarch equally formidable to 
them all. The characters of princes, too, especially among their 
contemporaries, depend, not only upon their talents for govern- 
ment, but upon their qualities as men. Francis, notwithstand- 
ing the many errors conspicuous in his foreign policy and 
domestic administration, was, nevertheless, humane, beneficent, 
generous. He possessed dignity without pride, affability free 
from meanness, and courtesy exempt from deceit. All who had 
access to know him, and no man of merit was ever denied that 
privilege, respected and loved him. Captivated with his per- 
sonal qualities, his subjects forgot his defects as a monarch ; and 
admiring him, as the most accomplished and amiable gentleman 
of his dominions, they hardly murmured at acts of maladminis- 
tration, which, in a prince of less engaging disposition, would 
have been deemed unpardonable. 

This admiration, however, must have been temporary only, 
and would have died away with the courtiers who bestowed it ; 
the illusion arising from his private virtues must have ceased, 
and posterity would have judged of his public conduct with its 
usual impartiality : but another circumstance prevented this ; 
and his name has been transmitted to posterity with increasing 
reputation. Science and the arts had, at that time, made little 
progress in France. They were just beginning to advance 
beyond the limits of Italy, where they had revived, and which 
had hitherto been their only seat. Francis took them immedi- 
ately under his protection, and vied with Leo himself in the zcnl 
and munificence with which he encouraged them. He invited 
learned men to his court, he conversed with them familiarly, he 



SECT. II.] READING. 79 

employed them in business, he raised them to offices of dignity, 
and honoured them with his confidence. That race of men, not 
more prone to complain when denied the respect to which they 
fancy themselves entitled, than apt to be pleased when treated 
with the distinction which they consider as their due, thought 
they could not exceed in gratitude to such a benefactor, and 
strained their invention, and employed all their ingenuity in 
panegyric. 

Succeeding authors, warmed with their descriptions of Francis' 
bounty, adopted their encomiums, and refined upon them. The 
appellation of Father of Letters, bestowed upon Prancis, had 
rendered his memory sacred among historians ; and they seem 
to have regarded it as a sort of impiety to uncover his infirmities, 
or to point out his defects. Thus Francis, notwithstanding his 
inferior abilities and want of success, has more than equalled 
the fame of Charles. The virtues which he possessed as a man, 
have entitled him to greater admiration and praise, than have 
been bestowed upon the extensive genius, and fortunate arts, of 
a more capable, but less amiable rival. 

XVIII. — The Supper and Grace. 

A shoe coming loose from the forefoot of the thill-horse, at the 
beginning of the ascent of mount Taurira, the postilion dis- 
mounted, twisted the shoe off, and put it in his pocket. As the 
ascent was of five or six miles, and that horse our main depend- 
ence, I made a point of having the shoe fastened on again as 
well as we could ; but the postilion had thrown away the nails, 
and the hammer in the chaise-box being of no great use without 
them, I submitted to go on. 

He had not mounted half a mile higher, when coming to a 
flinty piece of road, the poor devil lost a second shoe, and from 
off his other forefoot. I then got out of the chaise in good ear- 
nest ; and seeing a house about a quarter of a mile to the left 
hand, with a good deal ado, I prevailed upon the postilion to 
turn up to it. The look of the house, and every thing about it, 
as we drew nearer, soon reconciled me to the disaster. It was 
a little farm-house, surrounded with about twenty acres of vine- 
yard, about as much corn, — and close to the house, on one side, 
was a potagerie of an acre and a half, full of every thing which 
could make plenty in a French peasant's house; — and on the 
other side was a little wood, which furnished wherewithal to 
dress it. It was about eight in the evening when I got to the 
house ; so I left the postilion to manage his point as he could ; 
and, for mine, I walked directly into the house. 

The family consisted of an old gray-headed man and his wife, 
with five or six sons and sons-in-law, and their. several wives, 
and a joyous genealogy out of them. 



80 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

They were all sitting down together to their lentil-soup : a 
large vvheaten loaf was in the middle of the table ; and a flagon 
of wine at each end of it promised joy through the stages of the 
repast — it was a feast of love. 

The old man rose up to meet me, and with a respectful cor- 
diality would have me sit down at the table. My heart was sat 
down the moment I entered the room ; so I sat down at once, 
like a son of the family ; and, to invest myself in the character 
as speedily as I could, I instantly borrowed the old man's knife, 
and taking up the loaf cut myself a hearty luncheon ; and, as I 
did it, I sa\? a testimony in every eye, not only of an honest wel- 
come, but of a welcome mixed with thanks that I had not seemed 
to doubt it. 

Was it this, or tell me, Nature, what else was it that made 
this morsel so sweet — and to what magic I owe it that the 
draught I took of their flagon was so delicious with it, that it 
remains upon my palate to this hour ? 

If the supper was to my taste, the grace which followed was 
much more so. 

When supper was over, the old man gave a knock upon the 
table with the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the 
dance. The moment the signal was given, the women and girls 
ran all together into the back apartments to tie up their hair, 
and the young men to the door to wash their faces, and change 
their sabots (wooden shoes), and in three minutes every soul 
was ready upon a little esplanade before the house to begin. 
The old man and his wife came out last, and, placing me betwixt 
them, sat down upon a sofa of turf by the door. 

The old man had, some fifty years ago, been no mean per- 
former upon the vielle ; and, at the age he was then of, touched 
it well enough for the purpose. His wife sung now and then a 
little to the tune, then intermitted, and joined her old man again, 
as their children and grand-children danced before them. 

It was not till the middle of the second dance, when for some 
pauses in the movement, wherein they all seemed to look up, I 
fancied I could distinguish an elevation of spirit, different from 
that which is the cause or the effect of simple jollity. In a word, 
I thought I beheld religion mixing in the dance ; but, as I had 
never seen her so engaged, I should have looked upon it now as 
one of the illusions of an imagination which is eternally mislead- 
ing me, had not the old man, as soon as the dance ended, said 
that this was their constant way ; and that, all his life loner, he 
made it a rule, after supper was over, to call out his family to 
dance and rejoice ; believing, he said, that a cheerful and con- 
tented mind was the best sort of thanks to heaven that an illite- 
rate peasant could pay. — Or learned prelate either, said I. 



SECT. II.] READING. 81 

XIX. — Rustic Felicity. 

Many are ihe silent pleasures of the honest peasant, who rises 
cheerfully to his labour. Look into his dwelling — where the 
scene of every man's happiness chiefly lies ; — he has the same 
domestic endearments — as much joy and comfort in his children, 
and as flattering hopes of their doing well — to enliven his hours 
and gladden his heart, as you would conceive in the most afflu- 
ent station. And I make no doubt, in general, but if the true 
account of his joys and sufferings were to be balanced with those 
of his betters, that the upshot would prove to be little more than 
this : that the rich man had the more meat — but the poor man 
the better stomach ; — the one had more luxury — more able 
physicians to attend and set him to rights: — the other, more 
health and soundness in his bones, and less occasion for their 
help ; — that, after these two articles betwixt them were balanced, 
in all other things they stood upon a level : — that the sun shines 
as warm — the air blows as fresh, and the earth breathes as fra- 
grant upon the one as the other ; — and they have an equal share 
in all the beauties and real benefits of nature. 

XX. — House of Mourning. 

Let us go into the house of mourning, made so by such afflic- 
tions as have been brought in merely by the common cross acci- 
dents and disasters to which our condition is exposed — where, 
perhaps, the aged parents sit broken-hearted, pierced to their 
souls with the folly and indiscretion of a thankless child — the 
child of their prayers, in whom all their hopes and expectations 
centered : — perhaps, a more affecting scene — a virtuous family 
lying pinched with want, where the unfortunate support of it, 
having long struggled with a train of misfortunes, and bravely 
fought up against them, is now piteously borne down at the last 
— overwhelmed with a cruel blow, which no forecast or frugality 
could have prevented. O God ! look upon his afflictions. 
Behold him distracted with many sorrows, surrounded with the 
tender pledges of his love, and the partner of his cares — without 
bread to give them ; unable from the remembrance of better 
da}^ to dig ; — to beg, ashamed. 

When we enter into the house of mourning — such as this — 
it is impossible to insult the unfortunate, even with an improper 
look. Under whatever levity and dissipation of heart such 
objects catch our eyes, they catch likewise our attentions — col- 
lect and call home our scattered thoughts, and exercise them 
with wisdom. A transient scene of distress, such as is here 
sketched, how soon does it furnish materials to set the mind at 
work ! How necessarily does it engage it to the consideration 

F 



82 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

of the miseries and misfortunes, the dangers and calamities, to 
which the life of man is subject ! By holding up such a glass 
before it, it forces the mind to see and reflect upon the vanity — 
the perishing condition, and uncertain tenure of every thing in 
this world. From reflections of this serious cast, how insensibly 
do the thoughts carry us farther! — and, from considering what 
we are, what kind of w T orld we live in, and what evils befall us 
in it, how naturally do they set us to look forward at what pos- 
sibly we shall be ; — for what kind of world we are intended — 
what evils may befall us there — and what provisions we should 
make against them here, whilst we have time and opportunity ! 
If these lessons are so inseparable from the house of mourning 
here supposed, we shall find it a still more instructive school of 
wisdom, when we take a view of the place in that affecting fight 
in which the wise man seems to confine it in the text ; in which 
by the house of mourning, I believe he means that particular 
scene of sorrow, where there is lamentation and mourning for 
the dead. Turn in hither, I beseech you, for a moment. Behold 
a dead man ready to be carried out, the only son of his mother, 
and she a widow. Perhaps a still more affecting spectacle, a 
kind and indulgent father of a numerous family lies breathless — 
snatched away in the strength of his age — torn, in an evil hour, 
from his children, and the bosom of a disconsolate wife. Behold 
much people of the city gathered together to mix their tears, 
with settled sorrow in their looks, going heavily along to the 
house of mourning, to perform that last melancholy office, which, 
when the debt of nature is paid, we are called upon to pay each 
other. If this sad occasion, which leads him there, has not done 
it already, take notice to what a serious and devout frame of 
mind every man is reduced, the moment he enters this gate of 
affliction. The busy and fluttering spirits which, in the house 
of mirth, were wont to transport him from one diverting object 
to another — see how they are fallen ! how peaceably they are 
laid ! In this gloomy mansion, full of shades and uncomfortable 
damps to seize the soul — see, the light and easy heart, which 
never knew what it was to think before, how pensive it is now, 
how soft, how susceptible, how full of religious impressions, 
how deep it is smitten with a sense and with a love of virtue. 
Could we, in this crisis, whilst this empire of reason and religion 
lasts, and the heart is thus exercised with wisdom, and busied 
with heavenly contemplations — could we see it naked as it is — 
stripped of its passions, unspotted by the world, and regardless 
of its pleasures — we might then safely rest our cause upon this 
single evidence, and appeal to the most sensual, whether Solo- 
mon has not made a just determination here in favour of the 
house of mourning ? Not for its own sake, but as it is fruitful 
in virtue, and becomes the occasion of so much good. Without 



SECT. III.] READING. 83 

this end, sorrow, I own, has no use but to shorten a man's days ; 
— nor can gravity, with all its studied solemnity of look and car- 
riage, serve any end but to make one half of the world merry, 
and impose upon the other. 



SECTION III. 

I. — The Honour and Advantage of a constant Adherence to 
Truth. 

Petrarch, a celebrated Italian poet, who nourished about 
four hundred years ago, recommended himself to the confidence 
and affection of Cardinal Colonna, in whose family he resided, 
by his candour and strict regard to truth. A violent quarrel 
occurred in the household of this nobleman ; which was carried 
so far, that recourse was had to arms. The cardinal wished to 
know the foundation of this affair ; and that he might be able to 
decide with justice, he assembled all his people, and obliged 
them to bind themselves, by a most solemn oath on the gospels, 
to declare the whole truth. Every one, without exception, sub- 
mitted to this determination ; even the bishop of Luna, brother 
to the cardinal, was not excused. Petrarch, in his turn, present- 
ing himself to take the oath, the cardinal closed the book, and 
said, As to you, Petrarch, your word is sufficient. 

II. — Impertinence in Discourse. 

This kind of impertinence is a habit of talking much without 
thinking. 

A man who has this distemper in his tongue shall entertain 
you, though he never saw you before, with a long story in praise 
of his own wife ; give you the particulars of last night's dream, 
or the description of a feast he has been at, without letting a 
single dish escape him. When he is thus entered into conver- 
sation, he grows very wise — descants upon the corruption of the 
times, and the degeneracy of the age we live in ; from which, as 
his transitions are somewhat sudden, he falls upon the price of 
corn, and the number of strangers that are in town. He under- 
takes to prove that it is better putting to sea in summer than in 
winter, and that rain is necessary to produce a good crop of corn; 
telling you, in the same breath, that he intends to plough up such 
a part of his estate next year, that the times are hard, and that a 
man has much ado to get through the world. His whole dis- 
course is nothing but hurry and incoherence. He acquaints you 
that Demippus had the largest torch at the feast of Ceres ; asks 
you if you remember how many pillars are in the music theatre ; 



84 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

tells you that he took physic yesterday ; and desires to know 
what day of the month it is. If you have patience to hear him, 
he will inform you what festivals are kept in August, what in 
October, and what in December. 

When you see such a fellow as this coming towards you, run 
for your life. A man had much better be visited by a fever, so 
painful is it to be fastened upon by one of this make, who takes 
it for granted that you have nothing else to do but to give him a 
hearing. 

III. — Character of Addison, as a Writer. 

As a describer of life and manners, Mr. Addison must be 
allowed to stand, perhaps, the first in the first rank. His hu- 
mour is peculiar to himself; and is so happily diffused, as to 
give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occur- 
rences. He never oversteps the modesty of nature ; nor raises 
merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures 
neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He 
copies life with so much fidelity, that he can hardly be said to 
invent; yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, that it 
is difficult to suppose them not merely the product of imagina- 
tion. 

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. 
His religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious ; he 
appears neither weakly credulous, nor wantonly sceptical ; his 
morality is neither dangerously lax, nor implacably rigid. All 
the enchantments of fancy, and all the cogency of arguments, are 
employed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care 
of pleasing the Author of his being. Truth is shown sometimes 
as the phantom of a vision, sometimes appears half veiled in an 
allegory, sometimes attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and 
sometimes steps forth in the confidence of reason. She wears a 
thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing. 

His prose is the model of the middle style ; on grave subjects 
not formal, on light occasions not grovelling; pure without scru- 
pulosity, and exact without apparent elaboration ; always equable 
and always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. 
His page is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected 
splendor. It seems to have been his principal endeavour to 
avoid all harshness and severity of diction; he is therefore some- 
times verbose in his transitions and connexions, and sometimes 
descends too much in the language of conversation ; yet, if his 
language had been less idiomatical, it might have lost somewhat 
of its genuine Anglicism. What he attempted, he performed ; 
he is never feeble, and he did not wish to be energetic ; he is 
never rapid, and he never stagnates. His sentences have neither 



SECT. III.] READING. 85 

studied amplitude nor affected brevity ; his periods, though not 
diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to 
attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but 
not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of 
Addison. 

IV. — Pleasure and Pain. 

There were two families, which, from the beginning of the 
world, were as opposite to each other as light and darkness. 
The one of them lived in heaven, and the other in hell. The 
youngest descendant of the first family was Pleasure, who was 
the daughter of Happiness, who was the child of Virtue, who 
was the offspring of the gods. These, as I said before, had their 
habitation in heaven. The youngest of the opposite family was 
Pain, who was the son of Misery, who was the child of Vice, 
who was the offspring of the Furies. The habitation of this race 
of beings was in hell. 

The middle station of nature between these two opposite ex- 
tremes was the earth, which was inhabited by creatures of a 
middle kind ; neither so virtuous as the one, nor so vicious as 
the other, but partaking of the good and bad qualities of these 
two opposite families. Jupiter, considering that this species, 
commonly called man, was too virtuous to be miserable, and too 
vicious to be. happy, that he might make a distinction between 
the good and the bad, ordered the two youngest of the above- 
mentioned families (Pleasure, who was the daughter of Happi- 
ness, and Pain, who was the son of Misery) to meet one another 
upon this part of nature, which lay in the half-way between 
them, having promised to settle it upon them both, provided they 
could agree upon the division of it, so as to share mankind be- 
tween them. 

Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their new habitation, 
but they immediately agreed upon this point, that Pleasure should 
take possession of the virtuous, and Pain of the vicious part of 
that species which was given up to them. But upon examining 
to which of them any individual they met with belonged, they 
found each of them had a right to him ; for that, contrary to 
what they had seen in their old places of residence, there was 
no person so vicious who had not some good in him, nor any 
person so virtuous who had not in him some evil. The truth of 
it is, they generally found, upon search, that in the most vicious 
man Pleasure might lay a claim to a hundredth part, and that in 
the most virtuous man Pain might come in for at least two thirds. 
This they saw would occasion endless disputes between them, 
unless they could come to some accommodation. To this end, 
there was a marriage proposed between them, and at length 
8 



86 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

concluded. Hence it is, that we find Pleasure and Pain are 
such constant yoke-fellows, and that they either make their visits 
together, or are never far asunder. If Pain comes into a heart, 
he is quickly followed by Pleasure ; and if Pleasure enters, you 
may be sure Pain is not far off. 

But notwithstanding this marriage was very convenient for 
the two parties, it did not seem to answer the intention of Jupiter 
in sending them among mankind. To remedy, therefore, this 
inconvenience, it was stipulated between them by article, and 
confirmed by the consent of each family, that, notwithstanding 
they here possessed the species indifferently, upon the death of 
every single person, if he was found to have in him a certain 
proportion of evil, he should be despatched into the infernal 
regions by a passport from Pain, there to dwell with Misery, 
Vice, and the Furies ; or, on the contrary, if he had in him a 
certain proportion of good, he should be despatched into heaven, 
by a passport from Pleasure, there to dwell with Happiness, 
Virtue, and the gods. 

V. — Sir Roger de Coverly's Family. 

Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger 
de Coverly, to pass away a month with him in the country, I last 
week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for 
some time at his country-house, where I intend to form several 
of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well ac- 
quainted with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed when I 
please, dine at his own table or in my chamber, as I think fit, sit 
still and say nothing, without bidding me be merry. When the 
gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me at 
a distance. As I have been walking in the fields, I have ob- 
served them stealing a sight of me over a hedge, and have heard 
the knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated 
to be stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it con- 
sists of sober and steady persons ; for as the knight is the best 
master in the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and as he 
is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving 
him ; by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown 
old with their master. You would take his valet de chambre 
for his brother ; his butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of 
the gravest men I have ever seen, and his coachman has the 
looks of a privy counsellor. You see the goodness of the master 
even in the old house-dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the 
stable with great care and tenderness, out of regard to his past 
services, though he has been useless for several years. 

I could not but observe, with a great deal of pleasure, the joy 



SECT. III.] READING. 87 

that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics, 
upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them 
could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master ; 
every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and 
seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same 
time, the good old knight, with the mixture of the father and the 
master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs 
with several kind questions relating to themselves. 

This humanity and good nature engages everybody to him ; 
so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are 
in good humour, and none so much as the person whom he 
diverts himself with ; on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays 
any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stand er-by to observe a 
secret concern in the looks of all his servants. 

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his 
butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of 
his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because 
they have often heard their master talk of me as his particular 
friend. 

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in 
the woods or in the fields, is a very venerable man, who is ever 
with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of chap- 
lain, above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good 
sense and some learning, of a very regular life and obliging con- 
versation ; he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is 
very much in the old knight's esteem ; so that he lives in the 
family rather as a relation than a dependant. 

I have observed, in several of my papers, that my friend Sir 
Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of a humorist ; 
and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, 
tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly 
his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast 
of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders 
his conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the 
same degree of sense and virtue would appear in their common 
and ordinary colours. As I was walking with him last night, 
he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now 
mentioned ; — and, without staying for my answer, told me that 
he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own 
table ; for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at 
the university to find him out a clergyman, rather of plain sense 
than much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable 
temper ; and, if possible, a man who understood a little back- 
gammon. My friend, says Sir Roger, found me out this gentle- 
man ; who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they 
tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have 
given him the parsonage of the parish ; and because I know his 



88 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he out- 
lives me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than 
perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty 
years ; and though he does not know I have taken notice of it, 
has never, in all that time, asked any thing of me for himself, 
though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of 
one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been 
a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among them. If any 
dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; 
if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never 
happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. ' At 
his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good 
sermons which have been printed in English ; and only begged 
of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in 
the pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series 
that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued 
system of practical divinity. 

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we 
were talking of came up to us ; and, upon the knight's asking 
him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night), told us 
the Bishop of St. Asaph, in the morning, and Dr, South in the 
afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the 
whole year ; where I saw, with a great deal of pleasure, Arch- 
bishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, 
with several Jiving authors, who have published discourses of 
practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the 
pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon 
the qualifications of a good aspect and a clear voice ; for I was 
so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as 
well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never 
passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated 
after this manner, is like the composition of a poet, in the mouth 
of a graceful actor. 

VI. — The Folly of Inconsistent Expectations. 

Tins world may be considered as a great mart of commerce, 
where fortune exposes to our view various commodities ; riches, 
ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every thing is 
marked at a settled price. Our time, our labour, our ingenuity, 
is so much ready money, which we are to lay out to the best 
advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject; but stand to 
your own judgment ; and do not, like children, when you have 
purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess another, 
which you did not purchase. Such is the force of well-regulated 
industry, thai, a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, 
directed to one end, will generally insure success. Would you, 



SECT. III.] READING. 89 

for instance, be rich ? Do you think that single point worth the 
sacrificing every thing else to? You may then be rich. Thou- 
sands have become so from the lowest beginnings, by toil, and 
patient diligence, and attention to the minutest articles of expense 
and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of leisure, of a 
vacant mind, of a free unsuspicious temper. If you preserve 
your integrity, it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. 
Those high and lofty notions of morals which you brought with 
you from the schools, must be considerably lowered, and mixed 
with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence. 
You must learn to do hard, if not unjust things ; and for the nice 
embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary 
for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut 
your heart against the muses, and be content to feed your under- 
standing with plain household truths. In short, you must not 
attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine your 
sentiments ; but must keep on in one beaten track, without turn- 
ing aside either to the right hand or to the left. " But I cannot 
submit to drudgery like this — I feel a spirit above it." It is 
well — be above it then; only do not repine that you are not 
rich. 

Is knowledge the pearl of price 1 That, too, may be pur- 
chased — by steady application, and long solitary hours of study 
and reflection. Bestow these and you shall be learned. " But," 
says the man of letters, " what a hardship it is, that many an 
illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto of the arms of 
his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure, while I have 
little more than the common conveniences of life !" Was it in 
order to raise a fortune, that you consumed the sprightly hours 
of youth in study and retirement ? Was it to be rich, that you 
grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness 
from the Greek and Roman spring ? You have then mistaken 
your path, and ill employed your industry. "What reward 
have I then for all my labours ?" What reward ! a large, com- 
prehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturba- 
tions, and prejudices, able to comprehend and interpret the works 
of man — of God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant 
with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection. A 
perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the conscious dignity of 
superior intelligence* Good heaven ! and what reward can you 
ask besides ? 

" But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Provi- 
dence, that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should have 
amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation ?" Not in the least. 
He made himself a mean, dirty fellow for that very end. He 
has paid his health, his conscience, his liberty, for it ; and will 
you envy his bargain ? Will vou hang your head and blush in 
8* 



90 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

his presence, because he outshines you in equipage and show ? 
Lift up your brow, with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, 
" I have not these things, it is true ; but it is because I have not 
sought, because I have not desired them ; it is because I possess 
something better : I have chosen my lot ; I am content and 
satisfied." 

You are a modest man — you love quiet and independence, 
and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper, which renders 
it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, and be the 
herald of your own merits. Be content, then, with a modest 
retirement, with the esteem of your intimate friends, with the 
praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate, ingenuous spirit ; 
but resign the splendid distinctions of the world to those who 
can better scramble for them. 

The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict 
regard to the rules of morality makes him scrupulous, and fear- 
ful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disadvantages 
he lies under in every path of honour and profit. " Could I but 
get over some nice points, and conform to the practice and 
opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair a chance as 
others for dignities and preferment." And why can you not ? 
What hinders you from discarding this troublesome scrupulosity 
of yours which stands so grievously in your way? If it be a 
small thing to enjoy a healthful mind, sound at the very core, 
that does not shrink from the keenest inspection ; inward free- 
dom from remorse and perturbation ; unsullied whiteness and 
simplicity of manners ; a genuine integrity, 

Pure in the last recesses of the mind : 

if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for 
what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a 
slave-merchant, a director — or what you please. 

VII. — Description of the Vale of Kesivick, in Cumberland. 

This delightful vale is thus elegantly described by the late 
ingenious Dr. Brown, in a letter to a friend. 

In my way to the north, from Hagley, I passed through Dove- 
dale ; and to say the truth, was disappointed in it. When I 
came to Buxton, I visited another or two of their romantic 
scenes ; but these are inferior to Dovedale. They are all but 
poor miniatures of Keswick, which exceeds them more in 
grandeur than you can imagine ; and more, if possible, in beauty 
than in grandeur. 

Instead of a narrow slip of valley, which is seen at Dovedale, 
you have at Keswick a vast amphitheatre, in circumference 
above twenty miles. Instead of a meagre rivulet, a noble living 



SECT. III.] READING. 91 

lake ten miles round, of an oblong form, adorned with a variety 
of wooded islands. The rocks of Dovedale are, indeed, finely 
wild, pointed, and irregular; but the hills are both little and un- 
animated ; and the margin of the brook is poorly edged with 
weeds, morass, and brushwood. But at Keswick, you will, on 
one side of the lake, see a rich and beautiful landscape of culti- 
vated fields, rising to the eye in fine inequalities, with noble 
groves of oak, happily dispersed, and climbing the adjacent hills, 
shade above shade, in the most various and picturesque forms. 
On the opposite shore you will find rocks and cliffs of stupen- 
dous height, hanging broken over the lake in horrible grandeur, 
"some of them a thousand feet high, the woods climbing up their 
steep and shaggy sides, where mortal foot never yet approached. 
On these dreadful heights the eagles build their nests ; a variety 
of waterfalls are seen pouring from their summits, and tumbling 
in vast sheets from rock to rock, in rude and terrible magnifi- 
cence ; while, on all sides of this immense amphitheatre, the 
lofty mountains rise round, piercing the clouds, in shapes as 
spiry and fantastic as the very rocks of Dovedale. To this I 
must add the frequent and bold projections of the cliffs into the 
lake, forming noble bays and promontories : in other parts they 
finely retire from it, and often open in abrupt chasms or clefts, 
through which, at hand, you see rich and uncultivated vales ; 
and beyond these, at various distances,- mountain rising over 
mountain ; among which, new prospects present themselves in 
mist, till the eye is lost in an agreeable perplexity : 

Where active fancy travels beyond sense, 
And pictures things unseen. 

Were I to analyze the two places into their constituent princi- 
ples, I should tell you, that the full perfection of Keswick con- 
sists in three circumstances ; beauty, horror, and immensity, 
united ; the second of which, alone, is found in Dovedale. Of 
beauty it has little, nature having left it almost a desert ; neither 
its small extent nor the diminutive and lifeless form of the hills 
admits magnificence ; but to give you a complete idea of these 
three perfections, as they are joined in Keswick, would require 
the united powers of Claude, Salvator, and Poussin. The first 
should throw his delicate sunshine over the cultivated vales, the 
scattered cots, the groves, the lake, and wooded islands. The 
second should dash out the horror of the rugged cliffs, the steeps, 
the hanging woods, and foaming waterfalls; while the grand 
pencil of Poussin should crown the whole with the majesty of 
the impending mountains. 

So much for what I would call the permanent beauty of this 
astonishing scene. Were I not afraid of being tiresome, I could 
now dwell as long upon its varying or accidental beauties. I 



92 LESSONSIN [PART I. 

would sail round the lake, anchor in every bay, and land you on 
every promontory and island. I would point out the perpetual 
change of prospect ; the woods, rocks, cliffs, and mountains, by 
turns vanishing or rising into view ; now gaining on the sight, 
hanging over our heads in their full dimensions, beautifully 
dreadful; and now, by a change of situation, assuming new 
romantic shapes ; retiring and lessening on the eye, and insen- 
sibly losing themselves in an azure mist. I would remark the 
contrast of light and shade, produced by the morning and eve- 
ning sun ; the one gilding the western, the other the eastern 
side of this immense amphitheatre ; while the vast shadow pro- 
jected by the mountains buries the opposite part in a deep and 
purple gloom, which the eye can hardly penetrate. The natural 
variety of colouring which the several objects produce, is no 
less wonderful and pleasing; the ruling tints in the valley being 
those of azure, green, and gold ; yet ever various, arising from 
an intermixture of the lake, the woods, the grass, and corn-fields ; 
these are finely contrasted by the gray rocks and cliffs ; and the 
whole heightened by the yellow streams of light, the purple 
hues, and misty azure of the mountains. Sometimes, a serene 
air and clear sky disclose the tops of the highest hills ; at other 
times you see the clouds involving their summits, resting on 
their sides, or descending to their base, and rolling among the 
valleys, as in a vast furnace. When the winds are high, they 
roar among the cliffs and caverns like peals of thunder ; then, 
too, the clouds are seen in vast bodies, sweeping along the hills 
in gloomy greatness, while the lake joins the tumult, and tosses 
like a sea. But in calm weather the whole scene becomes new; 
the lake is a perfect mirror, and the landscape in all its beauty ; 
islands, fields, woods, rocks, and mountains are seen inverted, 
and floating on its surface. I will now carry you to the top of a 
cliff, where, if you dare approach the ridge, a new scene of 
astonishment presents itself; where the valley, lake, and islands 
seem lying at your feet ; where this expanse of water appears 
diminished to a little pool, amidst the vast and unmeasurable 
objects that surround it ; for here the summits of more distant 
hills appear beyond those you have already seen ; and, rising 
behind each other in successive ranges, and azure groups of 
craggy and broken steeps, form an inuwense and awful picture, 
which can only be expressed by the image of a tempestuous sea 
of mountains. Let me now conduct you down again to the 
valley, and conclude with one circumstance more ; which is, that 
a walk by a still moonlight (at which time the distant waterfalls 
are heard in all their variety of sound) among these enchanting 
dales, opens such scenes of delicate beauty, repose, and solem- 
nity, as exceed all description. 



! EOT: III.] READING. 93 

VIII. — Pity, an Allegory. 

In the happy period of the golde# age, when all the celestial 
inhabitants descended to the earth, and conversed familiarly with 
mortals, among the most cherished of the heavenly powers, 
were twins, the offspring of Jupiter, Love and Joy. Wherever 
they appeared, the flowers sprung up beneath their feet, the sun 
shone with a brighter radiance, and all nature seemed embel- 
lished by their presence. 

They were inseparable companions ; and their growing at- 
tachment was favoured by Jupiter, who had decreed that a last- 
ing union should be solemnized between them, so soon as they 
were arrived at maturer years. But, in the mean time, the sons 
of men deviated from their native . innocence ; vice and ruin 
over-ran the earth with giant strides ; and Astrea, with her train 
of celestial visitants, forsook their polluted abodes. Love alone 
remained, having been stolen away by Hope, who was his nurse, 
and conveyed by her to the forests of Arcadia, where he was 
brought up among the shepherds. But Jupiter assigned him a 
different partner, and commanded him to espouse Sorrow, the 
daughter of Ate. He complied, with reluctance ; for her fea- 
tures were harsh and disagreeable, her eyes sunk, her forehead 
contracted into perpetual wrinkles, and her temples were covered 
with a wreath of Cyprus and wormwood. 

From this union sprang a virgin, in whom might be traced a 
strong resemblance to both her parents ; but the sullen and un- 
amiable features of her mother were so mixed and blended with 
the sweetness of her father, that her countenance, though mourn- 
ful, was highly pleasing. The maids and shepherds of the 
neighbouring plains gathered round, and called her Pity. A 
redbreast w 7 as observed to build in the cabin where she was 
born ; and, while she was yet an infant, a dove, pursued by a 
hawk, flew into her bosom. The nymph had a dejected appear- 
ance ; but so soft and gentle a mien, that she was beloved to a 
degree of enthusiasm. Her voice was low and plaintive, but 
inexpressibly sweet, and she. loved to lie, for hours together, on 
the banks of some wild and melancholy stream, singing to her 
lute. She taught men to weep, for she took a strange delight 
in tears ; and often, when the virgins of the hamlet were assem- 
bled at their evening sports, she would steal in among them, and 
captivate their hearts by her tales, full of charming sadness. 
She wore on her head a garland, composed of her father's myr- 
tles, twisted with her mother's Cyprus. 

One day, as she sat musing by the waters of Helicon, her 
iears by chance fell into the fountain, and ever since, the muse's 
spring has retained a strong taste of the infusion. Pity was 
commanded by Jupiter to follow the steps of her mother through 



94 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

the world, dropping balm into the wounds she made, and bind- 
ing up the hearts she had broken. She follows with her hair 
loose, her bosom bare an£P throbbing, her garments torn by the 
briers, and her .feet bleeding with the roughness of the path. 
The nymph is mortal, for her mother is so ; and when she has 
fulfilled her destined course upon the earth, they shall both 
expire together, and Love be again united to Joy, his immortal 
and long betrothed bride. 

IX. — Advantages of Commerce. 

There is no place in town which I so much love to frequent 
as the Royal Exchange. It gives me a secret satisfaction, and 
in some measure gratifies my vanity, as I am an Englishman, 
to see so rich an assembly of my countrymen and foreigners, 
consulting together upon the private business of mankind, and 
making this metropolis a kind of emporium for the whole earth. 
I must confess I look upon High Change to be a grand council, 
in which all considerable nations have their representatives. 
Factors, in the trading world, are what ambassadors are in the 
politic world. They negotiate affairs, conclude treaties, and 
maintain a good correspondence between those wealthy societies 
of men, that are divided from one another by seas and oceans, or 
live on the different extremities of a continent. I have often 
been pleased to hear disputes adjusted between an inhabitant of 
Japan and an alderman of London; or to see a subject of the 
Great Mogul entering into a league with one of the Czar of 
Muscovy. I am infinitely delighted in mixing with these several 
ministers of commerce, as they are distinguished by their differ- 
ent walks and different languages. Sometimes I am jostled 
among a body of Armenians ; sometimes I am lost in a crowd 
of Jews ; and sometimes make one in a group of Dutchmen. I 
am a Dane, Swede, or Frenchman, at different times ; or rather 
fancy myself like the old philosopher, who, upon being asked 
what countryman he was, replied, that he was a citizen of the 
world. 

Nature seems to have taken a particular care to disseminate 
her blessings among the different regions of the world, with an 
eye to this mutual intercourse and traffic among mankind, that 
the natives of the several parts of the globe might have a kind 
of dependance upon one another, and be united together by their 
common interests. Almost every degree produces something 
peculiar to it. The food often grows in one country, and the 
sauce in another. The fruits of Portugal are corrected by the 
products of Barbadoes ; the infusion of a China plant sweetened 
with the pith of an Indian cane. The Philippine Islands give a 
flavour to our European bowls. The single dress of a woman 
of quality is often the product of a hundred climates. The 



SECT. III.] READING. 95 

muff and the fan come together from the different ends of the 
earth. The scarf is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet 
from beneath the pole. The brocade petticoat rises out of the 
mines of Peru, and the diamond necklace out of the bowels of 
Indostan. 

If we consider our own country in its natural prospect, with- 
out any of the benefits and advantages of commerce, what a 
barren uncomfortable spot of the earth falls to our share ! 
Natural historians tell us, that no fruit grows originally among 
us, besides hips and haws, acorns and pignuts, with other deli- 
cacies of the like nature ; that our climate, of itself, and without 
the assistance of art, can make no further advances towards a 
plum than a sloe, and carries an apple to no greater perfection 
than a crab ; that our melons, our peaches, our figs, our apricots, 
and our cherries, are strangers among us, imported in different 
ages, and naturalized in our English gardens ; and that they 
would all degenerate and fall away into the trash of our own 
country, if they were wholly neglected by the planter, and left 
to the mercy of our sun and soil. 

Nor has traffic more enriched our vegetable world than it has 
improved the whole face of nature among us. Our ships are 
laden with the harvest of every climate; our tables are stored 
with spices, and oils, and wines ; our rooms are filled with pyra- 
mids of China, and adorned with the workmanship of Japan ; 
our morning draught comes to us from the remotest corners of 
the earth ; we repair our bodies by the drugs of America, and 
repose ourselves under Indian canopies. My friend, Sir Andrew, 
calls the vineyards of France our gardens ; the spice islands our 
hot-beds ; the Persians our silk-weavers ; and the Chinese . our 
potters. Nature, indeed, furnishes us with the bare necessaries 
of life ; but traffic gives us a great variety of what is useful, 
and, at the same time, supplies us with every thing that is con- 
venient and ornamental. Nor is it the least part of this our 
happiness, that, whilst we enjoy the remotest products of the 
north and south, we are free from those extremities of weather 
which give them birth ; that our eyes are refreshed with the 
green fields of Britain, at the same time that our palates are 
feasted with fruits that rise between the tropics. 

For these reasons, there are not more useful members in a 
commonwealth than merchants. They knit mankind together 
in a mutual intercourse of good offices, distribute the gifts of 
nature, find work, for the poor, add wealth to the rich, and mag- 
nificence to the great. Our English merchant converts the tin 
of his own country into gold, and exchanges his wool for rubies. 
The Mahometans are clothed in our British manufacture, and 
the inhabitants of the frozen zone warmed with the fleeces of 
our sheep. 



96 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

X. — The State to which Switzerland was reduced by the 
Invasion of the French. 

The vengeance which the French took of the Swiss, for their 
determined opposition to the invasion of their country, was deci- 
sive and terrible. The history of Europe can afford no parallel 
of such cruelty. To dark ages, and the most barbarous nations 
of the east, we must turn for similar scenes of horror, and per- 
haps must turn in vain. The soldiers, dispersed over the coun- 
try, carried fire, and sword, and robbery, into the most tranquil 
and hidden valleys of Switzerland. From the depth of sweet 
retreats echoed the shrieks of murdered men, stabbed in their 
humble dwellings, under the shadow of the high mountains, in 
the midst of those scenes of nature which make solemn and pure 
the secret thoughts of man, and appal him with the majesty of 
God. The flying peasants saw, in the midst of the night, their 
cottages, their implements of husbandry, and the hopes of the 
future year, expiring in one cruel conflagration. The men were 
shot upon the slightest provocation: innumerable women, after 
being exposed to the most atrocious indignities, were murdered, 
and their bodies thrown into the woods. In some instances this 
conduct was resented ; and for symptoms of such an honourable 
spirit, the beautiful town of Altsdorf was burnt to the ground, 
and a single house left to show where it had stood. The town 
of Stantz, a town peculiarly dear to the Swiss, as it gave birth to 
one of the founders of their liberty, was reduced to a heap of 
cinders. In this town, in the fourteenth century, a Swiss general 
surprised, and took prisoner, the Austrian commander who had 
murdered his father; he forgave him, upon the simple condition 
of his not serving any more against the Swiss Cantons. When 
the French got possession of this place, they burnt it to ashes ; 
not in a barbarous age, but now, yesterday, in an age we call 
philosophical ; they burnt it because the inhabitants endeavoured 
to preserve their liberty. The Swiss was a simple peasant ; the 
French are a mighty people, combined for the regeneration of 
Europe. Oh, Europe, what dost thou owe to this mighty people ? 
Dead bodies, ruinous heaps, broken hearts, waste places, childless 
mothers, widows, orphans, tears, endless confusion, and unutter- 
able woe. For this mighty nation we have suffered seven years 
of unexampled wretchedness, a long period of discord, jealousy, 
privation, and horror, which every reflecting man would almost 
wish blotted out from his existence. By this mighty people the 
Swiss have lost their country; that country which they loved so 
well, that if they heard but the simple song of their childhood, 
tears fell down every manly face, and the hearts of intrepid sol- 
diers sobbed with grief. What, then, is all this done with im- 



SECT. III.] READING. 97 

punity? Are the thunders of God dumb? Are there no light- 
nings in his right hand? Pause a little, before you decide on 
the ways of Providence ; tarry, and see what will come to pass. 
There is a solemn and awful courage in the human heart, placed 
there by God himself, to guard man against the tyranny of his 
fellows, and while this lives, the world is safe. There slumbers 
even now, perhaps, upon the mountains of Switzerland, some 
youthful peasant, unconscious of the soul he bears, that shall lead 
down these bold people from their rocks, to such deeds of courage 
as they have heard with their ears, and their fathers have de- 
clared unto them ; to such as were done in their days, and in 
the old time before them, by those magnanimous rustics who first 
taught foolish ambition to respect the wisdom and the spirit of 
simple men, righteously and honestly striving for every human 
blessing. Let me go on a little further in this dreadful enume- 
ration. More than thirty villages were sacked in the canton of 
Berne alone ; not only was all the produce of the present year 
destroyed, but all the cattle unfit for human food were slaugh- 
tered, and the agricultural implements burnt ; the certainty of 
famine was entailed upon them for the ensuing year ; at the end 
of all this military execution, civil exactions, still more cruel and 
oppressive, were begun ; and, under the forms of government 
and law, the most unprincipled men gave loose to their avarice 
and rapacity, till Switzerland has sunk at last under the com- 
plication of her misfortunes, reduced to the lowest ebb of misery 
and despair. 

XI. — On Public Speaking. 

Most foreign writers who have given any character of the 
English nation, whatever vices they ascribe to it, allow, in gene- 
ral, that the people are naturally modest. It proceeds, perhaps, 
from this our national virtue, that our orators are observed to 
make use of less gesture or action than those of other countries. 
Our preachers stand stock still in the pulpit, and will not so 
much as move a finger to set off the best sermons in the world. 
We meet with the same speaking statues at our bars, and in all 
public places of debate. Our words flow from us in a smooth, 
continued stream, without those strainings of the voice, motions 
of the body, and majesty of the hand, which are so much cele- 
brated in the orators of Greece and Rome. We can talk of life 
and death in cold blood, and keep our temper in a discourse 
which turns upon every thing that is dear to us. Though our 
zeal breaks out in the finest tropes and figures, it is not able to 
stir a limb about us. 

It is certain that proper gestures and exertions of the voice 
cannot be too much studied by a public orator. They are a 
9 o 



98 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

kind of comment to what he utters ; and enforce every thing he 
says, with weak hearers, better than the strongest argument he 
can make use of. They keep the audience awake, and fix their 
attention to what is delivered to them ; at the same time that 
they show the speaker is in earnest, and affected himself with 
what he so passionately recommends to others. 

We are told that the great Latin orator very much impaired 
his health by the vehemence of action with which he used to de- 
liver himself. The Greek orator was likewise so very famous 
for this particular in rhetoric, that one of his antagonists, whom 
he had banished from Athens, reading over the oration which 
had procured his banishment, and seeing his friends admire it, 
could not forbear asking them — If they were so much affected 
by the bare reading of it, how much more they would have been 
alarmed, had they heard him actually throwing out such a storm 
of eloquence. 

How cold and dead a figure, in comparison of these two great 
men, does an orator often make at the British bar, holding up 
his head with the most insipid serenity, and stroking the sides 
of a long wig that reaches down to his middle ! Nothing can be 
more ridiculous than the gestures of most of our English speakers. 
You see some of them running their hands into their pockets as 
far as ever they can thrust them, and others looking with great 
attention on a piece of paper that has nothing written on it ; you 
may see many a smart rhetorician turning his hat in his hands, 
moulding it into several different cocks, examining sometimes the 
lining of it, and sometimes the button, during the whole course 
of his harangue. A deaf man would think he was cheapening 
a beaver; when perhaps he was talking of the fate of the British 
nation. I remember, when I was a young man, and used to 
frequent Westminster-hall, there was a counsellor who never 
pleaded without a piece of packthread in his hand, which he used 
to twist about a thumb or finger all the while he was speaking ; 
the wags of those days used to call it the thread of his discourse, 
for he was not able to utter a word without it. One of his clients, 
who was more merry than wise, stole it from him one day, in the 
midst of his pleading ; but he had better have left it alone, for he 
lost his cause by the jest. 

XII. — Advantages of History. 

The advantages found in history seem to be of three kinds ; 
as it amuses the fancy, as it improves the understanding, and as 
it strengthens virtue. 

In reality, what more agreeable entertainment to the mind 
than to be transported into the remotest ages of the world, and to 
©bserve human society, in its infancy, making the first faint 



SECT. III.] READING. 99 

essays towards the arts and sciences ? To see the policy of 
government and the civility of conversation refining by degrees, 
and every thing that is ornamental to human life advancing 
towards its perfection? To mark the rise, progress, declension, 
and final extinction of the most flourishing empires ; the virtues 
which contributed to their greatness, and the vices which drew 
on their ruin ? In short, to see all the human race, from the be- 
ginning of time, pass as it were in review before us, appearing 
in their true colours, without any of those disguises which, dur- 
ing their lifetime, so much perplexed the judgment of the be- 
holders? What spectacle can be imagined so magnificent, so 
various, so interesting ? What amusement, either of the senses 
or imagination, can be compared with it ? Shall our trifling 
pastimes, which engross so much of our time, be preferred, as 
more satisfactory, and more fit to engage our attention ? How 
perverse must that taste be, which is capable of so wrong a 
choice of pleasure ! 

But history is a most improving part of knowledge, as well as 
an agreeable amusement ; and, indeed, a great part of what we 
commonly call erudition, and value so highly, is nothing but an 
acquaintance with historical facts. An extensive knowledge of 
this kind belongs to men of letters ; but I must think it an un- 
pardonable ignorance in persons, of whatever sex or condition, 
not to be acquainted with the histories of their own country, 
along with the histories of ancient Greece and Rome. 

I must add, that history is not only a valuable part of know- 
ledge, but opens the door to many other parts of knowledge, and 
affords materials to most of the sciences. And, indeed, if we 
consider the shortness of human life, and our limited knowledge, 
even of what passes in our own time, we must be sensible that 
we should be forever children in understanding, were it not for 
this invention, which extends our experience to all past ages, 
and to most distant nations, making them contribute as much to 
our improvement in wisdom, as if they had actually lain under 
our observation. A man acquainted with history, may, in some 
respect, be said to have lived from the beginning of the world, 
and to have been making continual additions to his stock of 
knowledge, in every century. 

There is also an advantage in that knowledge which is ac- 
quired by history, above what is learned by the practice of the 
world, that it brings us acquainted with human affairs, without 
diminishing in the least from the most delicate sentiments of 
virtue. And, to tell the truth, I scarce know any study or occu- 
pation so unexceptionable as history, in this particular. Poets 
can paint virtue in the most charming colours ; but, as they 
address themselves entirely to the passions, they often become 
advocates to vice. Even philosophers are apt to bewilder them- 



100 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

selves in the subtilty of their speculations ; and we have seen 
some go so far, as to deny the reality of all moral distinctions. 
But I think it a remark worthy the attention of the speculative 
reader, that the historians have been almost, without exception, 
the true friends of virtue, and have always represented it in its 
proper colours, however they may have erred in their judgments 
of particular persons. Nor is this combination of historians, in 
favour of virtue, at all difficult to be accounted for. When a 
man of business enters into life and action, he is more apt to con- 
sider the characters of men as they have relation to his interest, 
than as they stand in themselves, and has his judgment warped 
on every occasion by the violence of his passion. When a phi- 
losopher contemplates character and manners, in his closet, the 
general abstract view of the objects leaves the mind so cold and 
unmoved, that the sentiments of nature have no room to play, 
and he scarce feels the difference between vice and virtue. His- 
tory keeps in a just medium betwixt these extremes, and places 
the objects in their true point of view. The writers of history, 
as well as the readers, are sufficiently interested in the characters 
and events, to have a lively sentiment of blame or praise ; and, 
at the same time, have no particular interest or concern to per- 
vert their judgment. 

XIII. — Virtue. 

But Virtue has resources buried in itself, which we know 
not till the invading hour calls them from their retreats. Sur- 
rounded by hosts without, and when nature itself turned traitor, 
is its most deadly enemy within; it assumes a new and a super- 
human power, which is greater than nature itself. Whatever 
be its creed — whatever be its sect — from whatever segment of 
the globe its orisons are, Virtue is God's empire, and from his 
throne of thrones He will defend it. The orbs of creation, the 
islands of light which float in myriads on the ocean of the uni- 
verse ; suns that have no number, pouring life upon worlds that, 
untravelled by the wings of seraphim, spread through the depths 
of space without end ; these are, to the eye of God, but the 
creatures of a lesser exertion of His power, born to blaze, to tes- 
tify His glory, and to perish ! But Virtue is more precious than 
all worlds — an emanation, an essence of Himself — more ethereal 
than the angels — more durable than the palaces of Heaven ! — 
the mightiest masterpiece of Him who set the stars upon their 
courses, and filled chaos with an universe ! Though cast into 
this distant earth, and struggling on the dim arena of a human 
heart, all things above are spectators of its conflict, or enlisted in 
its cause. The angels have their charge over it ; the banners 
of archangels are on its side ; and from sphere to sphere, through 



SECT. III.] READING. 101 

the illimitable ether, and round the impenetrable darkness, at the 
feet of God*its triumph is hymned by harps which are strung to 
the glories of its Creator ! 

XIV. — On the Immortality of the Soul. 

Among -other excellent arguments for the immortality of the 
soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul 
to its perfection, without a possibility of ever arriving at it; 
which is a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened and 
improved by others who have written on this subject, though it 
seems to me to carry a great weight with it. How can it enter 
into the thoughts of man, that the sou], which is capable of such 
immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all 
eternity, shall fall away into nothing, almost as soon as it is 
created ? Are such abilities made for no purpose ? A brute 
arrives at a point of perfection that he can never pass ; in a few 
years he has all the endowments he is capable of; and were he 
to live ten thousand more, he would be the same thing he is at 
present. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplish- 
ments ; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of fur- 
ther enlargements; I could imagine it might fall away insensibly, 
and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can we be- 
lieve a thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress of improve- 
ment, and travelling on from perfection to perfection, after having 
just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and made a few 
discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must 
perish at her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her 
inquiries? 

Man, considered in his present state, does not seem born to 
enjoy life, but to deliver it down to others. This is not sur- 
prising to consider in animals, which are formed for our use, and 
can finish their business in a short life. The silk-worm, after 
having spun her task, lavs her Qggs, and dies. But in this life 
man can never take in his full measure of knowledge ; nor has 
he time to subdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and 
come up to the perfection of his nature, before he is hurried off 
the stage. "Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious 
creatures for so mean a purpose ? Can he delight in the pro- 
duction of such abortive intelligences, such short-lived reasonable 
beings ? Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted ? 
Capacities that are never to be gratified ? How can we find 
that wisdom which shines through all his works, in the forma- 
tion of man, without looking on this world as only a nursery for 
the next ; and believing that the several generations of rational 
creatures which rise up and disappear in such quick successions, 
are only to receive their first rudiments of all existence here, and 



102 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

afterwards to be transplanted into a more friendly climate, where 
they may spread and flourish to all eternity. 

There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant 
consideration in religion than this, of the perpetual progress 
which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, with- 
out ever arriving at a period in it. To look upon the soul as 
going on from strength to strength; to consider that she is to 
shine, with new accessions of glory, to all eternity; that she will 
be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge ; 
carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition 
which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect 
pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beautifying 
in his eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees of 
resemblance. 

Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of a finite 
spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all envy in 
inferior natures, and all contempt in superior. That cherubim, 
which now appears as a God to a human soul, knows very well 
that the period will come about in eternity, when the human 
soul shall be as perfect as he himself now is; nay, when she 
shall look down upon that degree of perfection, as much as she 
now falls short of it. It is true, the higher nature still advances, 
and by that means preserves his distance and superiority in the 
scale of being ; but he knows, that how high soever the station 
is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior nature 
will at length mount up to it, and shine forth in the same degree 
of glory. 

With what astonishment and veneration may we look into our 
souls, where there are such hidden stores of virtue and know- 
ledge, such inexhausted. sources of perfection! We know not 
yet what we shall be, nor will it ever enter into the heart of man 
to conceive the glory that will be always in reserve for him. 
The soul, considered in relation to its Creator, is like one of 
those mathematical lines that may draw nearer to another for all 
eternity, without a possibility of touching it; and can there be a 
thought so transporting, as to consider ourselves in these per- 
petual approaches to Him, who is not only the standard of per- 
fection, but of happiness ! 

XV. — The Combat of the Horatii and the Curiatii. 

The combat of the Horatii and Curiatii is painted in a very 
natural and animated manner by Livy. The cause was this: — 
The inhabitants of Alba and Rome, roused by ambition and mu- 
tual complaints, took the field, and were on the eve of a bloody 
battle. The Alban general, to prevent the effusion of blood, pro- 
posed to Hostilius, then king of Rome, to refer the destiny of 



SECT. III.] READING. 103 

both nations to three combatants of each side, and that empire 
should be the prize of the conquering party. The proposal was 
accepted. The Albans named the Curiatii, three brothers, for 
their champions. The three sons of Horatius were chosen for 
the Romans. 

The treaty being concluded, the three brothers, on each side, 
arrayed themselves in armour, according to agreement. Each 
side exhorts its respective champions; representing to them, that 
their gods, their country, their parents, every individual in the 
city and army, now fixed their eyes on their arms and valour. 
The generous combatants, intrepid in themselves, and animated 
by such exhortations, marched forth, and stood between the two 
armies. The armies placed themselves before their respective 
camps, and were less solicitous for any present danger, than for 
the consequence of this action. They therefore gave their whole 
attention to a sight which could not but alarm them. The signal 
is given. The combatants engage with hostile weapons, and 
show themselves inspired with the intrepidity of two mighty 
armies. Both parties, equally insensible of their own danger, 
had nothing in view but the slavery or liberty of their country, 
whose destiny depended upon their conduct. At the first onset, 
the clashing of their armour, and the terrific gleam of their 
swords, filled the spectators with such trepidation, fear, and 
horror, that the faculty of speech and breath seemed totally sus- 
pended, even while the hope of success inclined to neither side. 
But when it came to a closer engagement, not only the motions 
of their bodies, and the furious agitation of their weapons, arrested 
the eyes of the spectators, but their opening wounds, and the 
streaming blood. Two of the Romans fell, and expired at the 
feet of the Albans, who were all three wounded. Upon their 
fall, the Alban army shouted for joy, while the Roman legions 
remained without hope, but not without concern, being eagerly 
anxious for the surviving Roman, then surrounded by his three 
adversaries. Happily, he was not wounded ; but not being a 
match for three, though superior to any of them singly, he had 
recourse to a stratagem for dividing them. He betook himself 
to flight; rightly supposing that they would follow him at un- 
equal distances, as their strength, after so much loss of blood, 
would permit. Having fled a considerable way from the spot 
where they fought, he looked back, and saw the Curiatii pursu- 
ing at a considerable distance from one another, and one of them 
very near him. He turned with all his fury upon the foremost ; 
and, while the Alban army were crying out to his brothers to 
succour him, Horatius, having presently despatched his first 
enemy, rushed forward to a second victory. The Romans en- 
couraged their champion by such acclamations, as generally pro- 
ceed from unexpected success. He, on the other hand, hastens 



104 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

to put an end to the second combat, and slew another before the 
third, who was not far off, could come up to his assistance. 
There now remained only one combatant on each side. The 
Roman, who had still received no hurt, fired with gaining a 
double victory, advances with great confidence to his third com- 
bat. His antagonist, on the other hand, being weakened by the 
loss of blood, and spent with running so far, could scarce drag 
his legs after him, and being already dispirited by the death of 
his brothers, presents his breast to the victor, for it could not be 
called a contest. " Two," says the exulting Roman, " two have 
I sacrificed to the manes of my brothers — the third I will offer 
up to my country, that henceforth Rome may give laws to Alba." 
Upon which he transfixed him with his sword, and stripped him 
of his armour. The Romans received Horatius, the victor, into 
their camp with an exultation great as their former fear. After 
this, each army buried their respective dead, but with very dif- 
ferent sentiments ; the one reflecting on the sovereignty they had 
acquired, and the other on their subjection to slave.r} r , to the power 
of the Romans. 

This combat became still more remarkable: Horatius, returning 
to Rome with the arms and spoils of his enemy, met his sister, 
who was to have been married to one of the Curiatii. Seeing 
her brother dressed in her lover's coat of armour, which she her- 
self had wrought, she could not contain her grief. She shed a 
flood of tears, she tore her hair, and, in the transport of her sor- 
row, uttered the most violent imprecations against her brother. 
Horatius, warm with, his victory, and enraged at the grief which 
his sister expressed, with such unseasonable passion, in the midst 
of the public joy, in the heat of his anger drove a poignard to her 
heart. " Begone to thy lover," says he, " and carry him that de- 
generate passion which makes thee prefer a dead enemy to the 
glory of thy country." Everybody detested an action so cruel 
and inhuman. The murderer was immediately seized and 
dragged before the Duumviri, the proper judges of such crimes. 
Horatius was condemned to lose his life ; and the very day of 
his triumph had been the day of his punishment, if he had not, 
by the advice of Tullus Hostilius, appealed from that judgment 
to the assembly of the people. He appeared there with the same 
courage and resolution that he had shown in the combat with the 
Curiatii. The people thought so great a service might justly 
excuse them, if for once they moderated the rigour of the law ; 
and accordingly he was acquitted, rather through admiration of 
his courage, than for the justice of his cause. 



SECT. III.] READING. 105 



XVI. — On the Power of Custom. 

There is not a common saying which has a better form of 
sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of the vulgar, 
that custom is second nature. It is, indeed, able to form the man 
anew, and give him inclinations and capacities altogether different 
from those he was born with. A person who is addicted to play 
or gaming, though he took but little delight in it at first, by de- 
grees contracts so strong an inclination towards it, and gives him- 
self up so entirely to it, that it seems the only end of his being. 
The love of a retired or busy life will grow upon a man insen- 
sibly, as he is conversant in the one or the other, till he is utterly 
unqualified for relishing that to which he has been for some time 
disused. Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till he 
is unable to pass away his time without it ; not to mention how 
our delight in any particular study, art or science, rises and im- 
proves, in proportion to the application which we bestow upon 
it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, becomes at length an 
entertainment. Our employments are changed into diversions. 
The mind grows fond of those actions it is accustomed to, and is 
drawn with reluctancy from those paths in which it has been 
used to walk. 

If we consider, attentively, this property of human nature, it 
must instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, I 
would have no man discouraged with that kind of life, or series 
of action, in which the choice of others, or his own necessities, 
may have engaged him. It may, perhaps, be very disagreeable 
to him at first ; but use and application will certainly render it 
not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory. 

In the second place, I would recommend to every one the 
admirable precept which Pythagoras is said to have given to his 
disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn from the 
observation I have enlarged upon : " Pitch upon that course of 
life which is the most excellent, and custom will render it the 
most delightful." Men, whose circumstances will permit them 
to choose their own way of life, are inexcusable if they do not 
pursue that which their judgment tells them is the most laudable. 
The voice of reason is more to be regarded than the bent of any 
present inclination, since, by the rule above mentioned, inclina- 
tion will, at length, come over to reason, though we can never 
force reason to comply with inclination. 

In the third place, this observation may teach the most sen- 
sual and irreligious man to overlook those hardships and diffi- 
culties which are apt to discourage him from the prosecution of 
a virtuous life. " The gods," says Hesiod, " have placed labour 
before virtue ; the way to her is at first rough and difficult, but 



106 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

grows more smooth and easy the farther you advance in it." 
The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and resolution will, 
in a little time, find that " her ways are ways of pleasantness, 
and that all her paths are peace." 

To enforce this consideration, we may further observe, that 
the practice of religion will not only be attended with that plea- 
sure which naturally accompanies those actions to which we are 
habituated ; but with those supernumerary joys of heart that 
rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure, from the satisfac- 
tion of acting up to the dictates of reason, and from the prospect 
of a happy immortality. 

In the fourth place, we may learn from this observation which 
we have made on the mind of man, to take particular care, when 
we are once settled in a regular course of life, how we too fre- 
quently indulge ourselves in any of the most innocent diversions 
and entertainments; since the mind may insensibly fall off from 
the relish of virtuous actions, and, by degrees, exchange that 
pleasure which it takes in the performance of its duty, for 
delights of a much more inferior and unprofitable nature. 

The last use which I shall make of this remarkable property 
in human nature, of being delighted with those actions to which 
it is accustomed, is, to show how absolutely necessary it is for 
us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if we would enjoy the 
pleasures of the next. The state of bliss we call heaven, will 
not be capable of affecting those minds which are not thus 
qualified for it; we must in this world gain a relish of truth and 
virtue, if we would be able to taste that knowledge and perfec- 
tion which are to make us happy in the next. The seeds of 
those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and 
flourish in the soul to all eternity, must be planted in it during 
this its present state of probation. In short, heaven is not to be 
looked upon only as the reward, but as the natural effect of a 
religious life. 

XVII. — On Pedantry. 

Pedantry, in the common sense of the word, means an 
absurd ostentation of learning, and stiffness of phraseology, pro- 
ceeding from a misguided knowledge of books and a total igno- 
rance of men. 

But I have often thought that we might extend its significa- 
tion a good deal farther; and, in general, apply it to that failing 
which disposes a person to obtrude upon others subjects of con- 
versation relating to his own business, studies, or amusements. 

In this sense of the phrase, we should find pedants in every 
character and condition of life. Instead of a black coat and a 
plain shirt, we should often see pedantry appear in an embroi- 



SECT. III.] READING. 107 

dered suit and Brussels lace ; instead of being bedaubed with 
snuff, we should find it breathing perfumes; and, in place of a 
bookworm, crawling through the gloomy cloisters of a university, 
we should mark it in the state of a gilded butterfly, buzzing 
through the gay region of the drawing-room. 

Robert Daisy, Esq., is a pedant of this last kind. When he 
tells you that his ruffles cost twenty guineas a pair ; that his 
buttons were the first of the kind, made by one of the most emi- 
nent artists in Birmingham ; that his buckles were procured by 
means of a friend at Paris, and are the exact pattern of those 
worn by the Compte d'Artois ; that the loop of his hat was of 
his own contrivance, and has set the fashion to half-a-dozen of 
the finest fellows in town : when he descants on all these parti- 
culars, with that smile of self-complacency which sits for ever on 
his cheek, he is as much a pedant as his quondam tutor, who 
recites verses from Pindar, tells stories out of Herodotus, and 
talks for an hour on the energy of the Greek particles. 

But Mr. Daisy is struck dumb by the approach of his brother, 
Sir Thomas, whose pedantry goes a pitch higher, and pours out 
all the intelligence of France and Italy, whence the young baro- 
net is just returned, after a tour of fifteen months over all the 
kingdoms of the continent. Talk of music, he cuts you short 
with the history of the first singer at Naples ; of painting, he 
runs you down with a description of the gallery at Florence ; 
of architecture, he overwhelms you with the dimensions of St. 
Peter's or the great church at Antwerp ; or, if you leave the 
province of arts altogether, and introduce the name of a river or 
hill, he instantly deluges you with the Rhine, or makes you 
dizzy with the height of iEtna or Mont Blanc. 

Miss will have no difficulty of owning her great aunt to be a 
pedant, when she talks all the time of dinner on the composition 
of the pudding, or the seasoning of the mince-pies ; or enters 
into a disquisition on the figure of the damask table-cloth, with 
a word or two on the thrift of making one's own linen ; but the 
young lady will be surprised when I inform her, that her own 
history of last Thursday's assembly, with the episode of Lady 
D's feather, and the digression to the qualities of Mr. Frizzle, 
the hair-dresser, was also a piece of downright pedantry. 

Mrs. Caudle is guilty of the same weakness, when she re- 
counts the numberless witticisms of her daughter Emmy, 
describes the droll figure her little Bill made yesterday at trying 
on his first pair of breeches ; and informs us that Bobby has got 
seven teeth, and is just cutting an eighth, though he will be but 
nine months old next Wednesday, at six o'clock in the evening. 
Nor is her pedantry less disgusting, when she proceeds to enu- 
merate the virtues and good qualities of her husband ; though 



1 08 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

this last species is so uncommon, that it may, perhaps, be ad- 
mitted into conversation for the sake of novelty. 

There is pedantry in every disquisition, however masterly it 
may be, that stops the general conversation of the company. 
When Silius delivers that sort of lecture he is apt to get into, 
though it is supported by the most extensive information and the 
clearest discernment, it is still pedantry; and, while I admire 
the talents of Silius, I cannot help being uneasy at his exhibition 
of them. Last night, after supper, Silius began upon Protes- 
tantism, proceeded to the Irish massacre, went through the revo- 
lution, drew the character of King William, repeated anecdotes 
of Schomberg, and ended, at a quarter past twelve, by delineat- 
ing the course of the Boyne, in half a bumper of port, upon my 
best table ; which river, happening to overflow its banks, did 
infinite damage to my cousin Sophy's white satin petticoat. 

In short, every thing, in this sense of the word, is pedantry, 
which tends to destroy that equality of conversation which is 
necessary to the perfect ease and good humour of the company. 
Every one would be struck with the unpoliteness of that person's 
behaviour, who should help himself to a whole plateful of peas 
or strawberries, which some friend had sent him for a rarity, in 
the beginning of the season. Now, conversation is one of those 
good things, of which our guests or companions are equally 
entitled to a share, as of any other constituent part of the enter- 
tainment ; and it is as essential a want of politeness to engross 
the one, as to monopolize the other. 

XVIII. — The Journey of a Day. — A Picture of Human Life. 

Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary early in the 
morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indos- 
tan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest ; he was animated 
with hope ; he was incited by desire ; he walked swiftly for- 
ward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually rising before 
him. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the 
morning song of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last 
flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves 
of spices ; he sometimes contemplated the towering height of the 
oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fra- 
grance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring ; all his 
senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart. 

Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, and 
the increasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then looked 
round about him for some more commodious path. He saw on 
his right hand a grove, that seemed to wave its shades as a sign 
of invitation ; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure 
irresistibly pleasant. He did not, however, forget whither he 



SECT. III.] READING. 109 

was travelling, but found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, 
which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, 
and was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found 
means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards 
of diligence without suffering its fatigues. He, therefore, still 
continued to walk for a time, without the least remission of his 
ardour, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the 
music of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade, 
and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that 
covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung upon 
the branches. At last, the green path began to decline from its 
first tendency, and to wind among the hills and thickets, cooled 
with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah 
paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer 
safe to forsake the known and common track; but, remembering 
that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain 
was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, 
which he supposed only to make a few meanders in compliance 
with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the com- 
mon road. 

Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, 
though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This uneasi- 
ness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, 
and give way to every sensation that might soothe or divert him. 
He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh 
prospect, he turned aside to every cascade, and pleased himself 
with tracing the course of a gentle river, that rolled among the 
trees and watered a large region, with innumerable circumvolu- 
tions. In these amusements, the hours passed away unaccounted, 
his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not 
towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and confused, 
afraid to go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that 
the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured 
with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day 
vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round 
his head. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and 
painful remembrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness 
was lost when ease is consulted ; he lamented the unmanly im- 
patience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, and 
despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to trifle. 
While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap 
of thunder broke his meditation. 

He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, to 
tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some 
issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated 
himself upon the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of 
nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed 
10 



110 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

on with his sabre in his hand ; for the beasts of the desert were 
in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of 
rage and fear, and ravage and expiration ; all the horrors of 
darkness and solitude surrounded him ; the winds roared in the 
woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills. 

Thus, forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, 
without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every 
moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruction. At length, 
not fear but labour began to overcome him; his breath grew 
short, and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying 
down in resignation to his fate, when he beheld, through the 
brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the 
light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, 
he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old 
man set before him such provisions as he had collected for him- 
self, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude. 

When the repast was over, " Tell me," said the hermit, " by 
what chance thou hast been brought hither ; I have been now 
twenty years an inhabitant of this wilderness, in which I never 
saw a man before." Obidah then related the occurrences of his 
journey, without any concealment or palliation. 

"Son," said the hermit, "let the errors and follies, the dangers 
and escapes, of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, 
my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the 
morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of expectation ; we set 
forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and 
travel on a while in the straight road of piety towards the man- 
sions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervour, and endea- 
vour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy 
means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigour, 
and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, 
but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what 
we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, 
and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, 
and vigilance subsides ; we are then willing to inquire whether 
another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not at 
least turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach 
them with scruple and hesitation ; we enter them, but enter 
timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them 
without losing the road of virtue, which we for a while keep in 
our sight, and to which we propose to return. But temptation 
succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; 
we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our dis- 
quiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the re- 
membrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate 
object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, 
immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths 



SECT. IV.] READING. Ill 

of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, 
and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back 
upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance ; and 
wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the 
ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy 
example net to despair, but shall remember that though the day is 
past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to 
be made ; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endea- 
vours unassisted ; that the wanderer may at length return, after 
all his errors ; and that he who implores strength and courage 
from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. 
Go now, my son, to thy repose, commit thyself to the care of 
Omnipotence ; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin 
anew thy journey and thy life." 



SECTION IV. 
I. — Description of the Amphitheatre of Titus. 

Posterity admires, and will long admire, the awful remains 
of the amphitheatre of Titus, which so well deserves the epithet 
of Colossal. It was a building of an elliptic figure, five hundred 
and sixty-four feet in length, and four hundred and sixty-seven 
in breadth : founded on fourscore arches ; and rising with four 
successive orders of architecture, to the height of one hundred 
and forty feet. The outside of the edifice was encrusted w T ith 
marble, and decorated with statues. The slopes of the vast con- 
cave which formed the inside were filled, and surrounded with 
sixty or eighty rows of seats of marble, covered with cushions, 
and capable of receiving with ease, above fourscore thousand 
spectators. Sixty-four vomitories (for by that name the doors 
were very aptly distinguished) poured forth the immense multi- 
tude ; and the entrances, passages, and staircases, were contrived 
with such exquisite skill, that each person, whether of the sena- 
torial, the equestrian, or the plebeian order, arrived at his destined 
place without trouble or confusion. 

Nothing was omitted which in any respect could be subser- 
vient to the convenience and pleasure of the spectators. They 
were protected from the sun and rain by an ample canopy, occa- 
sionally drawn over their heads. The air was continually re- 
freshed by the playing of fountains, and profusely impregnated 
by the grateful scent of aromatics. In the centre of the edifice, 
the arena, or stage, was strewed with the finest sand, and succes- 
sively assumed the most different forms. At one moment, it 
seemed to rise out of the earth, like the garden of the Hespe- 



112 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

rides ; at another, it exhibited the rugged rocks and caverns of 
Thrace. The subterraneous pipes conveyed an inexhaustible 
supply of water ; and what had just before appeared a level 
plain, might be suddenly converted into a wide lake, covered 
with armed vessels, and replenished with the monsters of the 
deep. 

In the decorations of these scenes, the Roman emperors dis- 
played their wealth and liberality ; and we read, that on various 
occasions the whole furniture of the amphitheatre consisted either 
of silver, or of gold, or of amber. The poet who describes the 
games of Carinus, in the character of a shepherd, attracted to the 
capitol by the fame of their magnificence, affirms, that the nets 
designed as a defence against the wild beasts were of gold wire ; 
that the porticos were gilded ; and that the belt, or circle, which 
divided the several ranks of spectators from each other, was 
studded with a precious mosaic of beautiful stones. 

II. — Reflections on Westminster Abbey. 

When I am in a serious humour, I very often walk by myself 
in Westminster Abbey; where the gloominess of the place, and 
the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, 
and the condition of the people who lie in it. are apt to fill the 
mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is 
not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the 
church-yard, the cloisters, and the church; amusing myself with 
the tombstones and inscriptions, which I met with in those several 
regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the 
buried person, but that he was born upon one day and died upon 
another ; two circumstances that are common to all mankind. I 
could not but look upon those registers of existence, whether of 
brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons, 
who had left no other memorial of themselves, than that they were 
born, and that they died. 

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with 
the digging of a grave ; and saw, in every shovelful of it that 
w r as thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed with 
a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that, some time or other, had a 
place in the composition of a human body. Upon this I began 
to consider with myself, what innumerable multitudes of people 
lay confused together under the pavement of that ancient cathe- 
dral ; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and 
soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled among one 
another, and blended together in the same common mass ; how 
beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness and defor- 
mity, lay uncliaiiuguished, in the same promiscuous heap of 
matter. 



SECT. IV.] READING. 113 

After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality, 
as it were, in the lump, I examined it more particularly by the 
accounts which I found on several of the monuments, which are 
raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them 
are covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that, if it were pos- 
sible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would 
blush at the praise which his friends have bestowed upon him. 
There are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the 
character of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew, and, by 
that means, are not understood once in a twelvemonth. In the 
poetical quarter, I found there were poets who had no monu- 
ments, and monuments which had no poets. I observed, indeed, 
that the present war had filled the church with many of those 
uninhabited monuments, which had been erected to the memory 
of persons whose bodies were, perhaps, buried in the plains of 
Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean. 

I could not but be very much delighted with several modern 
epitaphs, which are written with great elegance of expression 
and justness of thought, and which, therefore, do honour to the 
living as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to 
conceive an idea of the ignorance or politeness of a nation from 
the turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, they should 
be submitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius, before 
they are put into execution. Sir Cloudsly Shovel's monument 
has very often given me great offence. Instead of the brave 
rough English admiral, which was the distinguishing character 
of that plain, gallant man, he is represented, on his tomb, by the 
figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and reposing him- 
self upon velvet cushions, under a canopy of state. The inscrip- 
tion is answerable to the monument ; for, instead of celebrating 
the many remarkable actions he had performed in the service of 
his country, it acquaints us only with the manner of his death, 
in which it was impossible for him to reap any honour. The 
Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for want of genius, show an 
infinitely greater taste in their buildings and works of this nature, 
than we meet with in those of our own country. The monu- 
ments of their admirals, which have been erected at the public 
expense, represent them like themselves, and are adorned with 
rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with beautiful festoons of 
sea-weed, shells, and coral. 

I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark 
and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy imagina- 
tions ; but, for my own part, though I am always serious, I do 
not know what it is to be melancholy ; and can, therefore, take 
a view of nature, in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same 
pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this means 
1 can improve myself with objects which others consider with 

10* H 



114 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emo- 
tion of envy dies in me ; when I read the epitaphs of the beau- 
tiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the 
grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compas- 
sion ; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider 
the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. 
When I see kings lying by those who deposed them ; when I 
consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that 
divided the world with their contests and disputes ; I reflect, 
with sorrow and astonishment, on the little competitions, factions, 
and debates of mankind. W 7 hen I read the several dates of the 
tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years 
ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be cotem- 
poraries, and make our appearance together. 

III. — The Character of Mary, Queen of Scots. 

To all the charms of beauty, and the utmost elegance of ex- 
ternal form, Mary added those accomplishments which render 
their impression irresistible. Polite, affable, insinuating, sprightly, 
and capable of speaking and of writing with equal ease and 
dignity. Sudden, however, and violent in all her attachments, 
because her heart was warm and unsuspicious. Impatient of 
contradiction, because she had been accustomed, from her in- 
fancy, to be treated as a queen. No stranger, on some occasions, 
to dissimulation, which, in that perfidious court where she re- 
ceived her education, was reckoned among the necessary arts of 
government. Not insensible to flattery, nor unconscious of that 
pleasure with which almost every woman beholds the influence 
of her own beauty. Formed with the qualities that we love, not 
with the talents that we admire, she was an agreeable woman 
rather than an illustrious queen. 

The vivacity of her spirit, not sufficiently tempered with 
sound judgment, and the warmth of her heart, which was not at 
all times under the restraint of discretion, betrayed her both into 
errors and into crimes. To say that she was always unfortunate, 
will not account for that Jong and almost uninterrupted succes- 
sion of calamities which befell her; we must likewise add that 
she was often imprudent. Her passion for Darnly was rash, 
youthful, and excessive. And though the sudden transition to 
the opposite extreme was the natural effect of her ill-requited 
love, and of his ingratitude, insolence, and brutality ; yet neither 
these, nor BothwelPs artful address and important services, can 
justify her attachment to that nobleman. Even the manners of 
the age, licentious as they were, are no apology for this unhappy 
passion ; nor can they induce us to look on that tragical and in- 
famous scene which followed upon it, with less abhorrence. 



SECT. IV.] READING. 115 

Humanity will draw a veil over this part of her character, which 
it cannot approve, and may, perhaps, prompt some to impute 
her actions to her situation, more than to her disposition ; and to 
lament the unhappiness of the former, rather than to accuse the 
perverseness of the latter. Mary's sufferings exceed, both in 
degree and in duration, those tragical distresses which fancy has 
feigned, to excite sorrow and commiseration ; and while we sur- 
vey them, we are apt altogether to forget her frailties ; we think 
of her faults with less indignation, and approve of our tears, as 
if they were shed for a person who had attained much, nearer to 
pure virtue. 

With regard to the queen's person, a circumstance not to be 
omitted in writing the history of a female reign, all cotemporary 
authors agree in ascribing to Mary the utmost beauty of counte- 
nance, and elegance of shape, of which the human form is capa- 
ble. Her hair was black, though, according to the fashion of 
that age, she frequently wore borrowed locks, and of different 
colours. Her eyes were a dark gray, her complexion was ex- 
quisitely fine, and her hands and arms remarkably delicate, both 
as to shape and colour. Her stature was of a height that rose to 
the majestic. She danced, she walked, and rode, with equal 
grace. Her taste for music was just ; and she both sung and 
played upon the lute with uncommon skill. Towards the end 
of her life she began to grow fat ; and her long confinement, and 
the coldness of the houses in which she was imprisoned, brought 
on a rheumatism, which deprived her of the use of her limbs. 
No man, says Brantome, ever beheld her person without admi- 
ration and love, or will read her history without sorrow. 

IV. — Character of Queen Elizabeth. 

There are few personages in history who have been more 
exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation of friends, 
than Queen Elizabeth ; and yet there scarce is any, whose repu- 
tation has been more certainly determined, by the unanimous 
consent of posterity. The unusual length of her administration, 
and the strong features of her character, were able to overcome 
all prejudices ; and obliging her detractors to abate much of 
their invectives, and her admirers somewhat of their panegyric, 
have, at last, in spite of political factions, and what is more, of 
religious animosities, produced a uniform judgment with regard 
to her conduct. Her vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity, 
her penetration, vigilance, and address, are allowed to merit the 
highest praises ; and appear not to have been surpassed by any 
person who ever filled a throne ; — a conduct less rigorous, less 
imperious, more sincere, more indulgent to her people, would 
have been requisite to form a perfect character. By the force 



116 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

of her mind she controlled all her more active and stronger quali- 
ties, and prevented them from running into excess. Her heroism 
was exempted from all temerity, her frugality from avarice, her 
friendship from partiality, her enterprise from turbulency and a 
vain ambition; — she guarded not herself with equal care or 
equal success from lesser infirmities — the rivalship of beauty, 
the desire of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies of 
anger. 

Her singular talents for government were founded equally on 
her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great com- 
mand over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendancy 
over the people ; and, while she merited all their esteem by her 
real virtues, she also engaged their affection by her pretended 
ones. Few sovereigns of England succeeded to the throne in 
more difficult circumstances, and none ever conducted the govern- 
ment with such uniform success and felicity. Though unac- 
quainted with the practice of toleration, the true secret for man- 
aging religious factions, she preserved her people, by her superior 
prudence, from those confusions in which theological controversy 
had involved all the neighbouring nations ; and though her ene- 
mies were the most powerful princes of Europe, the most active, 
the most enterprising, the least scrupulous, she was able, by her 
vigour, to make deep impressions on their state ; her own great- 
ness meanwhile remaining untouched and unimpaired. 

The wise ministers and brave warriors who flourished during 
her reign, share the praise of her success ; but, instead of lessen- 
ing the applause due to her, they make great addition to it. 
They owed, all of them, their advancement to her choice ; they 
were supported by her constancy ; and, w 7 ith all their ability, 
they were never able to acquire an undue ascendancy over her. 
In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remained 
equally mistress. The force of her tender passions was great 
over her, but .the force of her mind was still superior ; and the 
combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to display 
the firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her ambitious 
sentiments. 

The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the pre- 
judices both of faction and of bigotry, yet lies still exposed to 
another prejudice, which is more durable, because more natural; 
and which, according to the different views in which we survey 
her, is capable either of exalting beyond measure, or diminishing 
the lustre of her character. This prejudice is founded on the 
consideration of her sex. When we contemplate her as a 
woman, we are apt to be struck with the highest admiration of 
her qualities, and extensive capacity ; but we are also apt to 
require some more softness of disposition, some greater lenity of 
temper, some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is 



SECT. IV.] READING. 117 

distinguished. But the true method of estimating her merit, is 
to lay aside all these considerations, and to consider her merely 
as a rational being, placed in authority, and entrusted with the 
government of mankind. We may find it difficult to reconcile 
our fancy to her, as a wife or a mistress ; but her qualities as a 
sovereign, though with some considerable exceptions, are the 
objects of undisputed applause and approbation. 

V. — Charles V.'s Resignation of his Dominions. 

Charles resolved to resign his dominions to his son, with a 
solemnity suitable to the importance of the transaction ; and to 
perform this last act of sovereignty with such formal pomp, as 
might leave an indelible impression on the minds, not only of his 
subjects, but of his successor. With this view he called Philip 
out of England, where the peevish temper of his queen, which 
increased with the despair of having issue, rendered him ex- 
tremely unhappy, and the jealousy of the English left him no 
hopes of obtaining the direction of their affairs. Having assem- 
bled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, on the twenty- 
fifth of October, one thousand five hundred and fifty-five, Charles 
seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of state, on one 
side of which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister, 
the queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands ; with a splen- 
did retinue of the grandees of Spain, and princes of the empire, 
standing behind him. The president of the council of Flanders, 
by his command, explained, in a few words, his intention in 
calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read 
the instrument of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to 
his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority, in 
the Low Countries, absolving his subjects there from their oath 
of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Phi- 
lip, his lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same loyalty and 
zeal which they had manifested, during so long a course of years, 
in support of his government. 

Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoulder 
of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without 
support, he addressed himself to the audience ; and from a paper 
which he held in his hand, in order to assist his memory, he re- 
counted with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things 
which he had undertaken and performed, since the commence- 
ment of his administration. He observed, that from the seven- 
teenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his thoughts and 
attention to public objects, reserving no portion of his time for 
the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of 
private pleasure ; that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he 
had visited Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four 



118 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England 
twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea ; 
that, while his health permitted him to discharge his duty, and 
the vigour of his constitution was equal, in any degree, to the 
arduous office of governing such extensive dominions, he had 
never shunned labour, nor repined under fatigue ; that now, 
when his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted, by the 
rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admon- 
ished him to retire ; nor was he^So fond of reigning as to retain 
the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to 
protect his subjects, or to render them happy ; that, instead of a 
sovereign worn out with disease, and scarcely half alive, he 
gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to 
govern, and who added to the vigour of youth all the attention 
and sagacity of maturer years ; that if, during the course of a 
long administration, he had committed any material error in 
government, or if, under the pressure of so many and great 
affairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to 
give them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, 
he now implored their forgiveness ; that, for his part, he should 
ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and attachment, and 
would carry the remembrance of it along with him to the place 
of his retreat, as the sweetest consolation, as well as the best 
reward for all his services, and in his last prayers to Almighty 
God, would pour forth his ardent wishes for all their welfare. 

Then, turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees, and 
kissed his father's hand, "If," says he, "I rr.d left you, by my 
death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large 
additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory 
on that account ; but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what 
I might have still retained, I may well expect the warmest ex- 
pressions of thanks on your part. With these, however, I dis- 
pense ; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your 
subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable 
testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a 
wise and virtuous administration, to justify the extraordinary 
proof, which I this day give, of my paternal affection, and to de- 
monstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose 
in you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion ; maintain 
the catholic faith in its purity ; let the laws of your country be 
sacred in your eyes ; encroach not on the rights and privileges 
of your people ; and if the time shall ever come when you shall 
wish to enjoy the tranquillity of a private life, may you have a 
son endowed with such qualities, that you can resign your 
sceptre to him with as much satisfaction as I give up mine to 
you." 



SECT. IV.] READING. 119 

As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his sub- 
jects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, ex- 
hausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an extraordi- 
nary effort. During this discourse, the whole audience melted 
into tears ; some, from admiration of his magnanimity ; others, 
softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his son, and 
of love to his people ; and all were affected with the deepest 
sorrow, at losing a sovereign, who had distinguished the Nether- 
lands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and 
attachment. 

A few weeks thereafter, Charles, in an assembly no less 
splendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned to 
his son the crown of Spain, with all the territories depending on 
them, both in the old, and in the new world. Of all these vast 
possessions, he reserved nothing for himself but an annual pen- 
sion of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his 
family, and to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and 
charity. 

The place he had chosen for his retreat, was the monastery 
of St. Justus, in the province of Estremadura. It was seated in 
a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and sur- 
rounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. From the 
nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it 
was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. 
Some months before his resignation, he had sent an architect 
thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for his accom- 
modation ; but he gave strict orders, that the style of the build- 
ing should be such as suited his present situation, rather than his 
former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms ; four of them in 
the form of friars' cells, with naked walls ; the other two, each 
twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and furnished 
in the most simple manner. They were all on a level with the 
ground ; with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles 
himself had given the plan, and which he had filled with various 
plants, intending to cultivate them with his own hands. On the 
other side, they communicated with the chapel of the monastery, 
in which he was to perform his devotions. Into this humble 
retreat, hardly sufficient for the comfortable accommodation of a 
private gentleman, did Charles enter, with twelve domestics 
only. He buried there, in solitude and silence, his grandeur 
and his ambition, together with all those vast projects, which, 
during half a century, had alarmed and agitated Europe, filling 
every kingdom in it by turns, with the terror of his arms, and 
the dread of being subjected to his power. 



120 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

VI. — Insecurity of the World. 

The universe at large would suffer as little, in its splendour 
and variety, by the destruction of our planet, as the verdure and 
sublime magnitude of a forest would suffer by the fall of a single 
leaf. The leaf quivers on the branch which supports it. It lies 
at the mercy of the slightest accident. A breath of wind tears 
it from its stem, and it lights on the stream of water which passes 
underneath. In a moment of time, the life which we know, by 
the microscope, it teems with, is extinguished ; and, an occurrence 
so insignificant in the eye of man, and on the scale of his obser- 
vation, carries in it, to the myriads which people this little leaf, 
an event as terrible and as decisive as the destruction of a world. 
Now, on the grand scale of the universe, we, the occupiers of 
this ball, which performs its little round among the suns and the 
systems that astronomy has unfolded — we may feel the same 
littleness and the same insecurity. We differ from the leaf only 
in this circumstance, that it would require the operation of greater 
elements to destroy us. But these elements exist. The fire 
which rages within, may lift its devouring energy to the surface 
of our planet, and transform it into one wide and wasting volcano. 
The sudden formation of elastic matter in the bowels of the 
earth — and it lies within the agency of known substances to 
accomplish this — may explode it into fragments. The exhala- 
tion of noxious air from below, may impart a virulence to the air 
that is around us ; it may affect the delicate proportion of its in- 
gredients ; and the whole of animated nature may wither and 
die under the malignity of a tainted atmosphere. A blazing 
comet may cross this fated planet in its orbit, and realize all the 
terrors which superstition has conceived of it. We cannot anti- 
cipate with precision the consequences of an event which every 
astronomer must know to lie within the limits of chance and 
probability. It may hurry our globe towards the sun — or drag 
it to the outer regions of the planetary system : or give it a new 
axis of revolution — and the effect which I shall simply announce, 
without explaining it, would be to change the place of the ocean, 
and bring another mighty flood upon our islands and continents. 
These are changes which may happen in a single instant of time, 
and against which nothing known in the present sj^stem of things 
provides us with any security. They might not annihilate the 
earth, but they would unpeople it; and we who tread its surface 
with such firm and assured footsteps, are at the mercy of devour- 
ing elements, which, if let loose upon us by the hand of the Al- 
mighty, would spread solitude, and silence, and death, over the 
dominions of the world. 



SECT. IV.] READING. 121 

VII. — -Importance of Virtue. 

Virtue is of intrinsic value, and good desert, and of indispen- 
sable obligation ; not the creature of will, but necessary and im- 
mutable ; not local and temporary, but of equal extent and 
antiquity with the Divine mind ; not a mode of sensation, but 
everlasting: truth ; not dependent on power, but the guide of all 
power. Virtue is the foundation of honour and esteem, and the 
source of all beauty, order and happiness in nature. It is what 
confers value on all the other endowments and qualities of a 
reasonable being, to which they ought to be absolutely subser- 
vient ; and without which, the more eminent they are, the more 
hideous deformities, and the greater curses, they become. 

The use of it is not confined to any one stage of our existence, 
or to any particular situation we can be in, but reaches through 
all the periods and circumstances of our beings. Many of the 
endowments and talents we now possess, and of which we are 
too apt to be proud, will cease entirely with the present state; 
but this will be our ornament and dignity, in every future state, 
to which we may be removed. Beauty and wit will die, learn- 
ing will vanish away, and all the arts of life be soon forgot ; but 
virtue will remain forever. This unites us to the whole rational 
creation; and fits us for conversing with any order of superior 
natures, and for a place in any part of God's works. It procures 
us the approbation and love of all wise and good beings, and 
renders them our allies and friends. But what is of unspeakably 
greater consequence, is, that it makes God our friend, assimilates 
and unites our minds to His, and engages His almighty power 
in our defence. Superior beings of all ranks are bound by it, 
no less than ourselves. It has the same authority in all worlds 
that it has in this. The further any being is advanced in excel- 
lence and perfection, the greater is his attachment to it, and the 
more is he under its influence. — To say no more, it is the law 
of the whole universe ; it stands first in the estimation of the 
Deity; its original is His nature; and it is the very object that 
makes him lovely. 

Such is the importance of virtue. — Of what consequence, 
therefore, is it, that we practise it? There is no argument or 
motive, in any respect fitted to influence a reasonable mind, 
which does not call us to this. One virtuous disposition of soul 
is preferable to the greatest natural accomplishments and abilities, 
and of more value than all the treasures of the world. — If you 
are wise, then study virtue, and contemn every thing that can 
come in competition with it. Remember that nothing else de- 
serves one anxious thought or wish. Remember that this alone 
is honour, glory, wealth, and happiness. Secure this, and you 
secure every thing. Lose this, and all is lost. 
11 * 



12*2 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

VIII.— Address to Art. 

O art ! thou distinguishing attribute and honour of human 
kind ! Who art not only able to imitate nature in her graces, 
but even to adorn her with graces of thine own ! Possessed of 
thee, the meanest genius grows deserving, and has a just demand 
for a portion of our esteem ; devoid of thee, the brightest of our 
kind lie lost and useless, and are but poorly distinguished from 
the most despicable and base. When we inhabited forests, in 
common with brutes, not otherwise known from them, than by 
the figure of our species, thou taughtest to assert the sovereignty 
of our nature, and to assume that empire for which Providence in- 
tended us. Thousands of utilities owe their birth to thee ; thou- 
sands of elegancies, pleasures, and joys, without which, life it- 
self would be but an insipid possession. 

Wide and extensive is the reach of thy dominion. No ele- 
ment is there, either so violent or so subtle, so yielding or so 
sluggish, as by the powers of its nature to be superior to thy di- 
rection. Thou dreadest not the fierce impetuosity of fire, but 
compellest its violence to be both obedient and useful. By it, 
thou softenest the stubborn tribe of minerals, so as to be formed 
and moulded into shapes innumerable. Hence weapons, armour, 
coin ; and previous to these and thy other works and energies, 
hence all those various tools and instruments which empower 
thee to proceed to farther ends more excellent. Nor is the sub- 
tile air less obedient to thy power, whether thou wiliest it to be 
a minister to our pleasure or utility. At thy command it giveth 
birth to sounds, which charm the soul with all the powers of 
harmony. Under thy instruction, it moves the ship over the 
seas; while that yielding element, where otherwise we sink, 
even water itself, is by thee taught to bear us ; the vast ocean, 
to promote that intercourse of nations which ignorance would 
imagine it was designed to intercept. To say how thy influence 
is seen on earth, would be to teach the meanest what he knows 
already. Suffice it but to mention, fields of arable and pasture ; 
lawns, and groves, and gardens, and plantations ; cottages, vil- 
lages, castles, towns, palaces, temples, and spacious cities. 

Nor does thy empire end in subjects thus inanimate. Its 
power also extends through the various race of animals, who 
either patiently submit to become thy slaves, or are sure to find 
thee an irresistible foe. The faithful dog, the patient ox, the 
generous horse, and the mighty elephant, are content all to re- 
ceive their instructions from thee, and readily to lend their natu- 
ral instinct or strength, to perform those offices which thy occa- 
sions call for. If there be found any species which are serviceable 
when dead, thou suggestest the means to investigate and take 
them ; if any be so savage as to refuse being famed, or of natures 



SECT. IV.] READING. 123 

fierce enough to venture an attack, thou teachest us to scorn their 
brutal rage ; to meet, repel, pursue, and conquer. 

Such, O Art, is thy amazing influence, when thou art em- 
ployed on these inferior subjects, on natures inanimate, or at best 
irrational. But, whenever thou choosest.a subject more noble, 
and settest to the cultivation of mind itself, then it is thou be- 
comest truly amiable and divine — the ever-flowing source of 
those sublimer beauties, of which no subject but mind alone is 
capable. Then it is thou art enabled to exhibit to mankind the 
admired tribes of poets and orators ; the sacred train of patriots 
and heroes ; the godlike list of philosophers and legislators ; the 
forms of virtuous and equal politics ; where private welfare is 
made the same with public — where crowds themselves prove 
disinterested, and virtue is made a national and popular charac- 
teristic. 

Hail, sacred source of all these wonders ! thyself instruct me 
to praise thee worthily ; through whom, whatever we do, is done 
with elegance and beauty; without whom, Avhat we do is ever 
graceless and deformed. Venerable power ! by what name shall 
I address thee ? Shall I call thee Ornament of the Mind, or art 
thou more truly Mind itself? It is Mind thou art, most perfect 
Mind : not rude, untaught ; but fair and polished. In such thou 
dwellest ; — of such thou art the form ; nor is ;t a thing more pos- 
sible to separate thee from such, than it would be to separate thee 
from thy own existence. 

IX. — Flattery. 

Flattery is a manner of conversation very shameful in itself, 
but beneficial to the flatterer. 

If a flatterer is upon a public walk with you, "Do but mind," 
says he, " how every one's eye is upon you. Sure, there is not 
a man in Athens that is taken so much notice of. You had 
justice done to you yesterday in the portico. There were above 
thirty of us together; and, the question being started, who was 
the most considerable person in the commonwealth — the whole 
company was of the same side. In short, Sir, every one made 
familiar with your name." He follows this whisper with a 
thousand other flatteries of the same nature. 

Whenever the person to whom he would make his court be- 
gins to speak, the sycophant begs the company to be silent, most 
impudently praises him to his face, is in raptures all the while 
he talks, and as soon as he has done, cries out, " That is perfectly 
right !" When his patron aims at being witty upon any man, 
he is ready to burst at the smartness of his raillery, and stops his 
mouth with his handkerchief, that he may not laugh out. If he 
calls his children about him, the flatterer has a pocket full of 



124 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

apples for them, which he distributes among them with a great 
deal of fondness ; wonders to see so many fine boys ; and turn- 
ing about to the father, tells him they are all as like him as they 
can stare. 

When he is invited to a feast, he is the first man that calls for 
a glass of wine, and is wonderfully pleased with the deliciousness 
of the flavour ; gets as near as possible to the man of the house, 
and tells him, with much concern, that he eats nothing himself. 
He singles out some particular dish, and recommends it to the 
rest of the company for a rarity. He desires the master of the 
feast to set in a warmer part of the room, begs him to take more 
care of his health, and advises him to put on a supernumerary 
garment in this cold weather. He is in a close whisper with 
him during the whole entertainment, and has neither eyes nor 
ears for any one else in the company. 

If a man shows him his house, he extols the architect, admires 
the gardens, and expatiates upon the furniture. If the owner is 
grossly flattered in a picture, he out-flatters the painter; and 
though he discovers a great likeness in it, can by no means al- 
low that it does justice to the original. In short, his whole busi- 
ness is to ingratiate himself with those who hear him, and to 
wheedle them out of their senses. 

X. — The Absent Man. 

Menacles comes down in the morning ; opens his door to go 
out; but shuts it again, because he perceives he has his night- 
cap on ; and examining himself further, finds that he is but half 
shaved, that he has stuck his sword on his right side, that his 
stockings are about his heels, and that his shirt is over his 
breeches. 

When he is dressed, he goes to court ; comes into the drawing- 
room ; and, walking upright under a branch of candlesticks, his 
wig is caught up by one of them, and hangs dangling in the air. 
All the courtiers fall a laughing; but Menacles laughs louder 
than any of them, and looks about for the person that is the jest 
of the company. Coming down to the court gate, he finds a 
coach; which taking for his own, he whips into it; and the 
coachman drives off, not doubting but he carries his master. As 
soon as he stops, Menacles throws himself out of the coach, 
crosses the court, ascends the staircase, and runs through all the 
chambers with the greatest familiarity, reposes himself on a couch, 
and fancies himself at home. The master of the house at last 
comes in. Menacles rises to receive him, and desires him to sit 
down. He talks, muses, and then talks again. The gentleman 
of the house is tired and amazed. Menacles is no less so ; but 
is every moment in hopes that his impertinent guest will at latt 



SECT. IV.] READING. 125 

end his tedious visit. Night comes on, when Menacles is hardly- 
convinced. 

When he is playing at backgammon, he calls for a full glass 
of wine and water. It is his turn to throw. He has the box in 
one hand, and his glass in the other; and, being extremely dry, 
and unwilling to lose time, he swallows down both the dice, and 
at the same time throws his wine into the tables. He writes a 
letter, and flings the sand into the ink-bottle. He writes a second, 
and mistakes the superscription. A nobleman receives one of 
them, and upon opening it, reads as follows : — "I would have 
you, honest Jack, immediately upon the receipt of this, take in 
hay enough to serve the winter." His farmer receives the other, 
and is amazed to see in it, " My lord, I received your Grace's 
commands." 

If he is at an entertainment, you may see the pieces of bread 
continually multiplying round his plate ; 'tis true the company 
want it, as well as their knives and forks, which Menacles does 
not let them keep long. Sometimes, in a morning he puts his 
whole family in a hurry, and at last goes out, without being able 
to stay for his coach or breakfast ; and for that day you may see 
him in every part of the town, except in the very place where 
he had appointed to be upon business of importance. 

You w T ould often take him for every thing he is not. For a 
fellow quite stupid, for he hears nothing ; for a fool, for he talks 
to himself, and has a hundred grimaces and motions with his 
head, which are altogether involuntary ; for a proud man, for he 
looks full upon you, and takes no notice of your saluting him. 
The truth of it is, his eyes are open, but he makes no use of 
them, and neither sees you, nor any man, nor anything else. 
He came once from his country-house, and his own footmen un- 
dertook to rob him, and succeeded. They held a flambeau to his 
throat, and bid him deliver his purse. He did so ; and coming 
home told his friends he had been robbed. They desired to 
know the particulars. — "Ask my servants," said Menacles, "for 
they were with me." 

XI. — The Monk. 

A poor Monk of the order of St. Francis came into the room 
to beg something for his convent. The moment I cast my eyes 
upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sous ; and 
accordingly, I put my purse into my pocket — buttoned it up — 
set myself a little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely 
to him; there was something, I fear, forbidding in my look: I 
have his picture this moment before my eyes, and think there 
was that in it, which deserved better. 

The Monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few 
11* 



126 LESSONS IN [PART 1. 

scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained 
of it, might be about seventy — but from his eyes, and that sort 
of fire that was in them, which seemed more tempered by cour- 
tesy than years, could be no more than sixty — Truth might lie 
between. He was certainly sixty-five ; and the general air of 
his countenance, notwithstanding- something seemed to have 
been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the 
account. 

It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted — 
mild, pale, penetrating; free from all commonplace ideas of fat 
contented ignorance, looking downwards upon the earth. It 
looked forward ; but looked as if it looked at something be- 
yond this world. How one of his order came by it, heaven 
above, who let it fall upon a Monk's shoulders, best knows ; but 
it would have suited a Brahmin ; and had I met it upon the plains 
of Indostan, I had reverenced it. 

The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes ; one 
might put it into the hands of any one to design ; for it was nei- 
ther elegant nor otherwise, but as character and expression made 
it so. It was a thin, spare form, something above the common 
size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forward in the figure 
— but it was the attitude of entreaty ; and, as it now stands pre- 
sent to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it. 

When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still ; 
and laying his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff 
with which he journeyed being in his right), when I had got 
close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the 
wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order — and did it 
with so simple a grace, and such an air of deprecation was there 
in the whole cast of his look and figure — I was bewitched not to 
have been struck with it. — A better reason was, I had predeter- 
mined not to give him a single sous. 

'Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his 
eyes, with which he had concluded his address — 'tis very true 
— and heaven be their resource, who have no other but the cha- 
rity of the world ; the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient 
for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it. 

As I pronounced the words great claims, he gave a slight 
glance with his eyes downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic — I 
felt the full force of the appeal — I acknowledge it, said I — a 
coarse habit, and that but once in three years, with a meagre 
diet — are no great matters ; but the true point of pity is, as they 
can be earned in the world with so little industry, that your 
order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund, 
which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the 
infirm; — the captive, who lies down counting over and over 
again, in the days of his affliction, languishes also for his share 



SECT. IV.] READING. 127 

of it ; and had you been of the order of mercy, instead of the 
order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I, pointing at my 
portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been opened to you, 
for the ransom of the unfortunate. The Monk made me a bow. 
But, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country surely have 
the first rights; and I have left thousands in distress upon the 
English shore. The Monk gave a cordial wave with his head 
— as much as to say, No doubt ; there is misery enough in every 
corner of the world as well as within our convent. But we dis- 
tinguish, said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in 
return for his appeal — we distinguish, my good father, betwixt 
those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labour, and 
those who eat the bread of other people's, and have no other 
plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, for the 
love of God. 

The poor Franciscan made no reply ; a hectic of a moment 
passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. — Nature seemed 
to have done with her resentments in him. He showed none — 
but letting his staff fall within his arm, he pressed both his hands 
with resignation on his breast, and retired. 

My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. — Pshaw ! 
said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times. But it 
would not do ; — every ungracious syllable I had uttered, crowded 
back in my imagination. I reflected I had no right over the 
poor Franciscan, but to deny him ; and that the punishment of 
that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of un- 
kind language — I considered his gray hairs, his courteous figure 
seemed to re-enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done 
me, and why I could use him thus ? — I would have given twenty 
livres for an advocate — I have behaved very ill, said I within 
myself; but I have only just set out upon my travels, and shall 
learn better manners as I get along. 

XII. — On the Head-dress of the Ladies. 

There is not so variable a thing in nature, as a lady's head- 
dress ; within my own memory, I have known it rise and fall 
above thirty degrees. About ten years ago it shot up to a very 
great height, insomuch that the female part of our species were 
much taller than the jnen. The women were of such an enor- 
mous stature, that " we appeared as grasshoppers before them." 
At present, the whole sex is in a manner dwarfed, and shrunk 
into a race of beauties, that seem almost another species. I re- 
member several ladies who were once very near seven feet 
high, that at present want some inches of five : how they came 
to be thus curtailed, I cannot learn ; whether the whole sex be 
at present under any penance which we know nothing of, or 



128 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

whether they have cast their head-dresses, in order to surprise 
us with something in that kind which shall be entirely new ; or 
whether some of the tallest of the sex, being too cunning for the 
rest, have contrived this method to make themselves appear 
sizeable, is still a secret ; though I find most are of opinion, they 
are at present like trees new lopped and pruned, that will cer- 
tainly sprout out, and flourish with greater heads than before. 
For my own part, as I do not love to be insulted by women who 
are taller than myself, I admire the sex much more in their pre- 
sent humiliation, which has reduced them to their natural 
dimensions, than when they had extended their persons, and 
lengthened themselves out into formidable and gigantic figures. 
I am not for adding to the beautiful edifices of nature, nor for 
raising any whimsical superstructure upon her plans: I must 
therefore repeat it, that I am highly pleased with the coifure now 
in fashion, and think it shows the good sense which at present 
very much reigns among the valuable part of the sex. One may 
observe that women in all ages have taken more pains than men 
to adorn the outside of their heads ; and indeed I very much ad- 
mire, that those architects, who raise such powerful structures 
out of ribands, lace, and wire, have not been recorded for their 
respective inventions. It is certain there have been as many 
orders in these kind of buildings, as in those which have been 
made of marble ; sometimes they rise in the shape of a pyramid, 
sometimes like a tower, and sometimes like a steeple. In Juve- 
nal's time, the building grew by several orders and stories, as he 
has very humorously described it : — 

With curls on curls they build her head before, 
And mount it with a formidable tower ; 
A giantess she seems ; but look behind, 
And then she dwindles to the pign:; kind. 

But I do not remember, in any part of my reading, that the 
head-dress aspired to so great an extravagance, as in the four- 
teenth century ; when it was built up in a couple of cones or 
spires, which stood so excessively high on each side of the head, 
that a woman, who was but a pigmy without her head-dress, ap- 
peared like a Colossus upon putting it on. Monsieur Paradin 
says, "That these old-fashioned fontages rose an ell above the 
head, that they were pointed like steeples, and had long loose 
pieces of crape fastened to the tops of them, which were curiously 
fringed, and hung down their backs like streamers." 

The women might possibly have carried this Gothic building 
much higher, had not a famous monk, Thomas Connecte by 
name, attacked it with great zeal and resolution. This holy man 
travelled from place to place, to preach down this monstrous 
commode : and succeeded so well in it, that, as the magicians 



SECT. IV.] READING. 129 

sacrificed their books to the flames, upon the preaching of an 
apostle, many of the women threw down their head-dresses in 
the middle of his sermon, and made a bonfire of them within 
sight of the pulpit. He was so renowned, as well for the sanc- 
tity of his life, as his manner of preaching, that he had often a 
congregation of twenty thousand people: — the men placing 
themselves on the one side of his pulpit, and the women on the 
other — they appeared, to use the similitude of an ingenious 
writer, like a forest of cedars, with their heads reaching to the 
clouds. He so warmed and animated the people against this 
monstrous ornament, that it lay under a kind of persecution ; and 
whenever it appeared in public, was pelted down by the rabble, 
who flung stones at the persons who wore it. But, notwithstand- 
ing this prodigy vanished while the preacher was among them, 
it began to appear again some months after his departure ; or to 
tell it in Monsieur Paradin's own words, " The women that, like 
snails in a fright, had drawn in their horns, shot them out again 
as soon as the danger was over." This extravagance of the 
women's head-dresses in that age, is taken notice of by Monsieur 
d'Argentre, in the history of Bretagne, and by other historians, 
as well as the person I have here quoted. 

It is usually observed, that a good reign is the only proper 
time for the making of laws against the exorbitance of power; 
in the same manner, an excessive head-dress may be attacked 
the most effectually when the fashion is against it. I do therefore 
recommend this paper to my female readers, by way of prevention. 

I would desire the fair sex to consider how impossible it is for 
them to add any thing that can be ornamental to what is already 
the masterpiece of nature. The head has the most beautiful 
appearance, as well as the highest station in the human figure. 
Nature has laid out all her art in beautifying the face ; she has 
touched it with vermillion ; planted in it a double row of ivory ; 
made it the seat of smiles and blushes; lighted it up and enli- 
vened it with the brightness of the eyes ; hung it on each side 
with curious organs of sense ; given it airs and graces that can- 
not be described ; and surrounded it with such a flowing shade 
of hair, as sets all its beauties in the most agreeable light ; in 
short, she seems to have designed the head as the cupola to the 
most glorious of her works ; and when we load it with such a 
pile of supernumerary ornaments, we destroy the symmetry of 
the human figure, and foolishly contrive to call off" the eye from 
great and real beauties, to childish gewgaws, ribands, and bone- 
lace. 

XIII. — On the Present and a Future State. 

A lewd young fellow seeing an aged hermit go by him bare- 
foot, "Father," says he, "you are in a very miserable condition, 

i 



130 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

if there is not another world." " True, son," said the hermit ; 
" but what is thy condition if there is ?" Man is a creature 
designed for two different states of being, or rather for two dif- 
ferent lives. His first life is short and transient ; his second 
permanent and lasting. The question we are all concerned in 
is this — in which of these two lives is it our chief interest to 
make ourselves happy? Or, in other words — whether we 
should endeavour to secure to ourselves the pleasures and grati- 
fications of a life which is uncertain and precarious, and at its 
utmost length of a very inconsiderable duration ; or to secure to 
ourselves the pleasures of a life which is fixed and settled, and 
will never end ? Every man, upon the first hearing of this 
question, knows very well which side of it he ought to close 
with. But however right we are in theory, it is plain that in 
practice we adhere to the wrong side of the question. We make 
provision for this life as though it were never to have an end ; 
and for the other life as though it were never to have a be- 
ginning. 

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to human 
nature, accidentally alight upon the earth and take a survey of 
its inhabitants, what would his notions of us be? Would he 
not think that we are a species of beings made for quite different 
ends and purposes than what we really are ? Must he not 
imagine that we were placed in this world to get riches and 
honours ? Would he not think that it was our duty to toil after 
wealth, and station, and title ? Nay, would he not believe we 
were forbidden poverty by threats of eternal punishment, and 
enjoined to pursue our pleasures under pain of damnation ? He 
would certainly imagine that we were influenced by a scheme 
of duties quite opposite to those which are indeed prescribed to 
us. And, truly, according to such an imagination, he must con- 
clude that we are a species of the most obedient creatures in the 
universe ; that we are constant to our duty ; and that we keep a 
steady eye on the end for which we were sent thither. 

But how great would be his astonishment when he learnt that 
we were beings not designed to exist in this world above three- 
score and ten years ; and that the greatest part of this busy 
species fall short even of that age ! How would he be lost in 
horror and admiration, when he should know that this set of 
creatures, who lay out all their endeavours for this life, which 
scarce deserves the name of existence, when, I say, he should 
know that this set of creatures are to exist to all eternity in 
another life, for which they make no preparations? Nothing 
can be a greater disgrace to reason, than that men, who are per- 
suaded of these two different states of being, should be perpetu- 
ally employed in providing for a life of threescore and ten years, 
and neglecting to make provision for that which, after many 



SECT. IV.] READING. 131 

myriads of years, will be still new, and still beginning; espe- 
cially when we consider that our endeavours for making our- 
selves great, or rich, or honourable, or whatever else we place 
our happiness in, may, after all, prove unsuccessful ; whereas, 
if we constantly and sincerely endeavour to make ourselves 
happy in the other life, we are sure that our endeavours will 
succeed, and that we shall not be disappointed of our hope. 

The following question is started by one of our school-men. 
Supposing the whole body of the earth were a great ball or mass 
of the finest sand, and that a single grain or particle of this sand 
should be annihilated every thousand years ? Supposing, then, 
that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while this 
prodigious mass of sand was consuming, by this slow method, 
until there was not a grain left, on condition that you were to be 
miserable for ever after ? Or, supposing that you might be 
happy for ever after, on condition you would be miserable until 
the whole mass of sand were thus annihilated, at the rate of one 
sand in a thousand years ; which of these two cases would you 
make your choice ? 

It must be confessed in this case, so many thousands of years 
are to the imagination as a kind of eternity, though in reality 
they do not bear so great a proportion to that duration which is 
to follow them, as an unit does to the greatest number which you 
can put together in figures, or as one of those sands to the sup- 
posed heap. Reason, therefore, tells us, without any manner of 
hesitation, which would be the better part in this choice. How- 
ever, as I have before intimated, our reason might, in such a 
case, be so overset by imagination, as to dispose some persons to 
sink under the consideration of the great length of the first part 
of this duration, and of the great distance of that second duration 
which is to succeed it;— the mind, I say, might give itself up to 
that happiness which is at hand, considering that it is so very- 
near, and that it would last so very long. But when the choice 
we have actually before us is this — whether we will choose to 
be happy for the space of only threescore and ten, nay, perhaps 
of only twenty or ten years, 1 might say for only a day or an 
hour, and miserable to all eternity ; or, on the contrary, misera- 
ble for this short term of years, and happy for a whole eternity 
— what words are sufficient to express that folly and want of 
consideration, which, in such case, makes a wrong choice ! 

I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing what sel- 
dom happens, that a course of virtue makes us miserable in this 
life : but if we suppose, as it generally happens, that virtue 
would make us more happy, even in this life, than a contrary 
course of vice, how can we sufficiently admire the stupidity or 
madness of those persons who are capable of making so absurd 
a choice ? 



132 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

Every wise man, therefore, will consider this life only as it 
may conduce to the happiness of the other, and cheerfully sacri- 
fice the pleasures of a few years to those of an eternity. 

XIV. — Uncle Toby's Benevolence. 

My uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries — not from want 
of courage. I have told you, in a former chapter, that he was a 
man of courage ; and I will add here, that, where just occasions 
presented, or called it forth, I know no man under whose arm I 
would have sooner taken shelter. Nor did this arise from any 
insensibility or obtuseness of his intellectual parts, for he felt as 
feelingly as a man could do. But he was of a peaceful, placid 
nature ; no jarring element in him ; all were mixed up so 
kindly within him, my uncle Toby had scarce a heart to retaliate 
upon a fly. 

Go — says he, one day at dinner, to an overgrown one which 
had buzzed about his nose, and tormented him cruelly all dinner- 
time, and which, after infinite attempts, he had caught at last as 
it flew by him — I'll not hurt thee — says my uncle Toby, rising 
from his chair, and going across the room with the fly in his 
hand — I'll not hurt a hair of thy head : go, says he, lifting up 
the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to let it escape — 
go, poor devil ; get thee gone : why should I hurt thee ? This 
world is surely wide enough to hold both thee and me. 

This lesson of universal good will, taught by my uncle Toby, 
may serve instead of a whole volume upon the subject. 

XV. — Power of Government. 

The greatest engine of moral power which human nature 
knows, is an organized, prosperous state. All that man, in his 
individual capacity, can do — all that he can effect by his frater- 
nities — by his ingenious discoveries and wonders of art — or by 
his influence over others — is as nothing, compared with the col- 
lective, perpetuated influence on human affairs and human hap- 
piness of a well-constituted, powerful commonwealth. It blesses 
generations with its sweet influence; — even the barren earth 
seems to pour out its fruits under a system where property is 
secure, while her fairest gardens are blighted by despotism ; — 
men, thinking, reasoning men, abound beneath its benignant 
sway; — nature enters into a beautiful accord, a better, purer 
asiento with man, and guides an industrious citizen to every 
rood of her smiling wastes; — and we see, at length, that what 
has been called a state of nature, has been most falsely, calum- 
niously so denominated ; that the nature of man is neither that 
of a savage, a hermit, nor a slave; but that of a member of a 



SECT. IV.] READING- 133 

weli-ordered family, that of a good neighbour, a free citizen, a 
well-informed, good man, acting with others like him. This is 
the lesson which is taught in the charter of our independence ; 
this is the lesson which our example is to teach the world. 

The epic poet of Rome — the faithful subject of an absolute 
prince — in unfolding the duties and destinies of his countrymen, 
bids them look down with disdain on the polished and intellec- 
tual arts of Greece, and deem their arts to be — 

To rule the nations with imperial sway ; 

To spare the tribes that yield ; fight down the proud ; 

And force the mood of peace upon the world. 

A nobler counsel breathes from the charter of our independ- 
ence ; a happier province belongs to our free republic. Peace 
we would extend, but by persuasion and example, — the moral 
force, by which alone it can prevail among the nations. Wars 
we may encounter, but it is in the sacred character of the injured 
and the wronged ; to raise the trampled rights of humanity from 
the dust ; to rescue the mild form of Liberty from her abode 
among the prisons and the scaffolds of the elder world, and to 
seat her in the chair of state among her adoring children ; — to 
give her beauty for ashes ; a healthful action for her cruel agony; 
to put at last a period to her warfare on earth ; to tear her star- 
spangled banner from the perilous ridges of battle, and plant it 
on the rock of ages. . There be it fixed for ever, — the power of 
a free people slumbering in its folds, their peace reposing in its 
shade ! 

XVI. — Story of the Siege of Calais. 

Edward III., after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to Calais. 
He had fortified his camp in so impregnable a manner, that all 
the efforts of France proved ineffectual to raise the siege, or 
throw succours into the city. The citizens, under Count Vienne, 
their gallant governor, made an admirable defence. France had 
now put the sickle into her second harvest, since Edward, with 
his victorious army, sat down before the town. The eyes of all 
Europe were intent on the issue. At length, famine did more 
for Edward than arms. After suffering unheard-of calamities, 
they resolved to attempt the enemy's camp. They boldly sallied 
forth ; the English joined battle ; and, after a long and desperate 
engagement, Count Vienne was taken prisoner, and the citizens, 
who survived the slaughter, retired within their gates. The 
command devolving upon Eustace St. Pierre, a man of mean 
birth, but of exalted virtue, he offered to capitulate with Edward, 
provided he permitted him to depart with life and liberty. Ed- 
ward, to avoid the imputation of cruelty, consented to spare the 
12 



134 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

bulk of the plebeians, provided they delivered up to him six of 
their principal citizens, with halters about their necks, as victims 
of due atonement for that spirit of rebellion with which they had 
inflamed the vulgar. When his messenger, Sir Walter Mauny, 
delivered the terms, consternation and pale dismay were im- 
pressed on every countenance. To a long and dead silence, 
deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace St: Pierre, getting 
up to a little eminence, thus addressed the assembly: — "My 
friends, we are brought to great straits this day. We must 
either yield- to the terms of our cruel and ensnaring conqueror, 
or give up our tender infants, our wives and daughters, to the 
bloody and brutal lusts of the violating soldiers. Is there any 
expedient left, whereby we may avoid the guilt and infamy of 
delivering up those who have suffered every misery with you, 
on the one hand ; or the desolation and horror of a sacked city, 
on the other? There is, my friends; there is one expedient 
left ; a gracious, an excellent, a godlike expedient ! Is there any 
here to whom virtue is dearer than life ? Let him offer himself 
an oblation for the safety of his people ! He shall not fail of a 
blessed approbation from that Power, who offered up his only 
Son for the salvation of mankind." He spoke — but an universal 
silence ensued. Each man looked around for the example of 
that virtue and magnanimity, which all wished to approve in 
themselves, though they wanted the resolution. At length, St. 
Pierre resumed, "I doubt not there are many here as ready, nay, 
more zealous of this martyrdom, than I can be; though the station 
to which I am raised, by the captivity of Lord Vienne, imparts a 
right to be the first in giving my life for your sakes. I give it 
freely — 1 give it cheerfully. Who comes next?" "Your son," 
exclaimed a youth, not yet come to maturity. "Ah, my child !" 
cried St. Pierre, " I am then twice sacrificed. But, no : I have 
rather begotten thee a second time. Thy years are few, but full, 
my son. The victim of virtue has reached the utmost purpose and 
goal of mortality. W^ho next, my friends? This is the hour of 
heroes." "Your kinsman," cried John de Aire. "Your kins- 
man," cried James Wissant. "Your kinsman," cried Peter Wis- 
sant. "Ah !" exclaimed Sir Walter Mauny, bursting into tears, 
" why was not I a citizen of Calais !" The sixth victim was still 
wanting, but was quickly supplied by lot, from numbers who were 
now emulous of so ennobling an example. The keys of the city 
were then delivered to Sir Walter. He took the six prisoners inio 
his custody ; then ordered the gates to be opened, and gave charge 
to his attendants to conduct the remaining citizens, with their 
families, through the camp of the English. Before they de- 
parted, however, they desired permission to take their last adieu 
of their deliverers. What a parting ! What a scene ! They 
crowded, with their wives and children, about St. Pierre and his 



SECT. IV.] READING. 135 

fellow-prisoners. They embraced — they clung around — they 
fell prostrate before them. They groaned — they wept aloud- — 
and the joint clamour of their mourning passed the gates of the 
city, and was heard throughout the English camp. The English, 
by this time, were apprized of what passed within Calais. They 
heard the voice of lamentation, and their souls were touched with 
compassion. Each of the soldiers prepared a portion of his own 
victuals, to welcome and entertain the half-famished inhabitants ; 
and they loaded them with as much as their present weakness 
was able to bear, in order to supply them with sustenance by the 
way. At length, St. Pierre and his fellow victims appeared 
under the conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of 
the English were instantly emptied. The soldiers poured from 
all parts, and arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to 
contemplate, to admire, this little band of patriots, as they passed. 
They bowed down to them on all sides. They murmured their 
applause of that virtue, which they could not but revere, even in 
enemies ; and they regarded those ropes which they had volun- 
tarily assumed about their necks, as ensigns of greater dignity 
than that of the British garter. As soon as they had reached the 
4 presence, " Mauny," says the monarch, i; are these the principal 
inhabitants of Calais ?" " They are," says Mauny : " They are 
not only the principal men of Calais — they are the principal men 
of France, my lord, if virtue has any share in the act of enno- 
bling." " Were they delivered peaceably," says Edward. " Was 
there no resistance, no commotion among the people ?" « Not in 
the least, my lord; the people would all have perished, rather 
than have delivered the least of these to your majesty. They 
are all self-delivered, self-devoted ; and come to offer up their 
inestimable heads, as an ample equivalent for the ransom of 
thousands." Edward was secretly piqued at this reply of Sir 
Walter; but he knew the privilege of a British subject, and 
suppressed his resentment. "Experience," says he, "has ever 
shown, that lenity only serves to invite people to new crimes. 
Severity, at times, is indispensably necessary to compel subjects 
to submission, by punishment and example. Go," he cried to 
an officer, " lead" these men to execution." 

At this instant, a sound of triumph was heard throughout the 
camp. The. queen had just arrived with a powerful reinforce- 
ment of gallant troops. Sir Walter Mauny flew to receive her 
majesty, and briefly informed her of the particulars respecting 
the six victims. 

As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward and his court, 
she desired a private audience. " My lord," said she, " the 
question I am to enter upon, is not touching the lives of a few 
mechanics — it respects the honour of the English nation ; it re- 
spects the glory of my Edward, my husband, my king. You 



136 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

think you have sentenced six of your enemies to death. No, 
my lord, they have sentenced themselves ; and their execution 
would be the execution of their own orders, not the orders of 
Edward. The stage on which they would suffer, would be to 
them a stage of honour, but a stage of shame to Edward ; a re- 
proach on his conquests ; an indelible disgrace to his name. Let 
us rather disappoint these haughty burghers, who wish to invest 
themselves with glory at our expense. We cannot wholly de- 
prive them of the merit of a sacrifice so nobly intended, but we 
may cut them short of their desires ; in the place of that death 
by which their glory would be consummate, let us bury them 
under gifts ; let us put them to confusion with applauses. We 
shall thereby defeat them of that popular opinion which never 
fails to attend those who suffer in the cause of virtue." " I am 
convinced — you have prevailed; be it so," replied Edward. 
"Prevent the execution ; have them instantly before us." They 
came ; when the queen, with an aspect and accents diffusing 
sweetness, thus bespoke them: — "Natives of France, and in- 
habitants of Calais, you have put us to a vast expense of blood 
and treasure in the recovery of our just and natural inheritance, 
but you have acted up to the best of an erroneous judgment;^ 
and we admire and honour in you that valour and virtue by 
which we are so long kept out of our rightful possessions. You, 
noble burghers ! You, excellent citizens ! Though you were 
tenfold the enemies of our persons and our throne, we can feel 
nothing on our part, save respect and affection for you. You 
have been sufficiently tested. We loose your chains ; we snatch 
you from the scaffold; and we thank you for that lesson of hu- 
miliation which you teach us, when you show us that excellence 
is not of blood, of title, or station ; that virtue gives a dignity 
superior to that of kings ; and that those whom the Almighty in- 
forms with sentiments like yours, are justly and eminently raised 
above all human distinctions. You are now free to depart to 
your kinsfolk, your countrymen, to all those whose lives and 
liberties you have so nobly redeemed, provided you refuse not 
the tokens of our esteem. Yet we would rather bind you to 
ourselves by every endearing obligation ; and for this purpose, 
we offer to you your choice of the gifts and honours that Edward 
has to bestow. Rivals for fame, but always friends to virtue, we 
wish that England were entitled to call you her sons." "Ah, 
my country!" exclaimed St. Pierre, "it is now that I tremble 
for you ; Edward only wins our cities, but Phillippa conquers 
hearts." 



SECT. V.] READING. 137 

SECTION V. 
I. — On Grace in Writing. 

I will not undertake to mark out, with any sort of precision, 
that idea which I would express by the word grace ; and per- 
haps it can no more be clearly described than justly defined. 
To give you, however, a general intimation of what I mean, 
when I apply that term to compositions of genius, I would re- 
semble it to that easy air which so remarkably distinguishes cer- 
tain persons of a genteel and liberal cast. It consists not only 
in the particular beauty of single parts, but arises from the general 
symmetry and construction of the whole. An author may be 
just in his sentiments, lively in his figures, and clear in his ex- 
pression, yet may have no claim to be admitted into the rank of 
finished writers. The several members must be so agreeably 
united, as mutually to reflect beauty upon each other ; their 
arrangement must be so happily disposed, as not to admit of the 
least transposition without manifest prejudice to the entire piece. 
The thoughts, the metaphors, the allusions, and the diction, 
should appear easy and natural, and seem to arise like so many 
spontaneous productions, rather than as the effects of art or 
labour. 

Whatever, therefore, is forced or affected in the sentiments; 
whatever is pompous or pedantic in the expression, is the very 
reverse of grace. Her mien is neither that of a prude nor 
coquette ; she is regular without formality, and sprightly with- 
out being fantastical. Grace, in short, is to good writing, what a 
proper light is to a fine picture ; it not only shows all the figures 
in their several proportions and relations, but shows them in the 
most advantageous manner. 

As gentility (to resume my former illustration) appears in the 
minutest action, and improves the most inconsiderable gesture ; 
so grace is discovered in the placing even the single word, or the 
turn of a mere expletive. Neither is this inexpressible quality 
confined to one species of composition only, but extends to all the 
various kinds; — to the humble pastoral, as well as to the lofty 
epic; — from the slightest letter, to the most solemn discourse. 

I know not whether Sir William Temple may not be consi- 
dered as the first of our prose authors, who introduced a graceful 
manner into our language. At least that quality does not seem 
to have appeared early, or spread far among us. But whereso- 
ever we may look for its origin, it is certainly to be found in its 
highest perfection, in the essays of a gentleman, whose writings 
will be distinguished so long as politeness and good sense have 
12* 



138 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

any admirers. That becoming air which Tully esteemed the 
criterion of fine composition, and which every reader, he says, 
imagines so easy to be imitated, yet will find so difficult to attain, 
is the prevailing characteristic of all that excellent author's most 
elegant performances. In a word, one may justly apply to him 
what Plato, in his allegorical language, says of Aristophanes, 
that the Graces, having searched all the world round for a tem- 
ple, wherein they might for ever dwell, settled at last in the 
breast of Mr. Addison. 

II. — On the Structure of Animals. 

Those who were skilful in anatomy among the ancients, con- 
cluded from the outward and inward make of a human body, 
that it was the work of a being transcendently wise and power- 
ful. As the world grew more enlightened in this art, their dis- 
coveries gave them fresh opportunities of admiring the conduct 
of Providence, in the formation of a human body. Galen was 
converted by his dissections, and could not but own a Supreme 
Being, upon a survey of his handiwork. There were, indeed, 
many parts of which the old anatomists did not know the certain 
use ; but as they saw that most of those which they examined 
were adapted, with admirable art, to their several functions, they 
did not question but those, whose uses they could not determine, 
were contrived with the same wisdom, for respective ends and 
purposes. Since the circulation of the blood has been found out, 
and many other great discoveries have been made by our modern 
anatomists, we see new wonders in the human frame, and discern 
several important uses for those parts, which uses the ancients 
knew nothing of. In short, the body of man is such a subject, 
as stands the utmost test of examination. Though it appears 
formed with the nicest wisdom, upon the most superficial survey 
of it, it still mends upon the search, and produces our surprise 
and amazement, in proportion as we pry into it. What I have 
here said of a human body, may be applied to the body of every 
animal which has been the subject of anatomical observations. 

The body of an animal is an object adequate to our senses. It 
is a particular system of Providence, that lies in a narrow com- 
pass. The eye is able to command it ; and, by successive inqui- 
ries, can search into all its parts. Could the body of the whole 
earth, or indeed the whole universe, be thus submitted to the 
examination of our senses, were it not too big and disproportioned 
for our inquiries, too unwieldy for the management of the eye 
and hand, there is no question but it would appear to us, as curi- 
ous and well contrived a frame as that of a human body. We 
should see the same concatenation and subserviency, the same 
necessity and usefulness, the same beauty and harmony, in all 



SECT. V.] READING. 139 

and every of its parts, as what we discover in the body of every 
single animal. 

The more extended our reason is, and the more able to grap- 
ple with immense objects, the greater still are those discoveries 
which it makes, of wisdom and providence, in the works of crea- 
tion. A Sir Isaac Newton, who stands up as the miracle of the 
present age, can look through a whole planetary system ; con- 
sider it in its weight, number and measure ; and draw from it as 
many demonstrations of infinite power and. wisdom, as a more 
confined understanding is able to deduce from the system of a 
human body. 

But to return to our speculations on anatomy, I shall here 
consider the fabric and texture of the bodies of animals in one 
particular view, which, in my opinion, shows the hand of a 
thinking and all-wise Being in their formation, with the evidence 
of a thousand demonstrations. I think we may lay this down 
as an incontested principle, that chance never acts in a perpetual 
uniformity and consistence with itself. If one should always 
fling the same number with ten thousand dice, or see every throw 
just five times less or five times more, in number, than the throw 
which immediately preceded it, who would not imagine there 
was some invisible power which directed the cast ? This is the 
proceeding which we find in the operations of nature. Every 
kind of animal is diversified by different magnitudes, each of 
which gives rise to a different species. Let a man trace the dog 
or lion kind, and he will observe how many of the works of na- 
ture are published, if I may use the expression, in a variety of 
editions. If we look into the reptile world, or into those different 
kind of animals that fill the element of water, we meet with the 
same repetitions among several species, that differ very little from 
one another, but in size and bulk. You find the same creature 
that is drawn at large, copied out in several proportions, and end- 
ing in miniature. It would be tedious to produce instances of 
this regular conduct in Providence, as it would be superfluous to 
those who are versed in the natural history of animals. The 
magnificent harmony of the universe is such, that we may ob-. 
serve innumerable divisions running upon the same ground. 1 
might also extend this speculation to the dead parts of nature, in 
which we may find matter disposed into many similar systems, 
as well in our survey of stars and planets, as of stones, vegeta- 
bles, and other sublunary parts of the creation. In a word, Pro- 
vidence has shown the richness of its goodness and wisdom, not 
only in the production of many original species, but in the mul- 
tiplicity of descants which it has made on every original species 
in particular. 

But to pursue this thought still farther. — Every living crea- 
ture, considered in itself, has many very complicated parts, that 



140 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

are exact copies of some other parts which it possesses, which 
are complicated in the same manner. One eye would have been 
sufficient for the subsistence and preservation of an animal; but 
in order to better his condition, we see another placed, with a 
mathematical exactness, in the same most advantageous situation, 
and in every particular, of the same size and texture. It is im- 
possible for chance to be thus delicate and uniform in her opera- 
tions. Should a million of dice turn up twice together in the 
same number, the wonder would be nothing in comparison with 
this. But when we see this similitude and resemblance in the 
arm, the hand, the fingers ; when we see one half of the body 
entirely correspond with the other, in all those minute strokes, 
without which man might have very well subsisted ; nay, when 
we often see a single part repeated a hundred times in the same 
body, notwithstanding it consists of the most intricate weaving 
of numberless fibres, and these parts differing still in magnitude, 
as the convenience of their particular situation requires; sure a 
man must have a strange cast of understanding, who does not 
discover the finger of God, in so wonderful a work. These du- 
plicates, in those parts of the body, without which a man might 
have very well subsisted, though not so well as with them, are a 
plain demonstration of an all-wise Contriver ; as those more nu- 
merous copyings, which are found among the vessels of the same 
body, are evident demonstrations that they could not be the work 
of chance. This argument receives additional strength, if we 
apply it to every animal and insect within our knowledge, as 
well as those numberless living creatures, that are objects too 
minute for a human eye. And if we consider how the several 
species in this whole world of life resemble one another, in very 
many particulars, so far as is convenient for their respective states 
of existence, it is much more probable that a hundred million of 
dice should be casually thrown a hundred million of times in the 
same number, than that the body of any single animal should be 
produced by the fortuitous concourse of matter. And that the 
like chance should arise in innumerable instances, requires a de- 
gree of credulity that is not under the direction of common sense. 



III. — On Natural and Fantastical Pleasures. 

It is of great use to consider the Pleasures which constitute 
human happiness, as they are distinguished into Natural and 
Fantastical. Natural Pleasures I call those, which not depend- 
ing on the fashion and caprice of any particular age or nation, 
are suited to human nature in general, and were intended, by 
Providence, as rewards for using our faculties agreeably to the 
ends for which they are given us. Fantastical Pleasures are 



SECT. V.] READING. 141 

Jiose which, having no natural fitness to delight our minds, pre- 
suppose some particular whim or taste, accidentally prevailing in 
a set of people, to which it is owing that they please. 

Now I take it, that the tranquillity and cheerfulness, with 
which I have passed my life, are the effects of having, ever since 
I came to years of discretion, continued my inclinations to the 
former sort of pleasures. But as my experience can be a rule 
only to my own actions, it may probably be a stronger motive to 
induce others to the same scheme of life. If they would con- 
sider that we are prompted to natural pleasures, by an instinct 
impressed on our minds by the Author of our nature, who best 
understands our frames, and consequently best knows what those 
pleasures are, which will give us the least uneasiness in the pur- 
suit, and the greatest satisfaction in the enjoyment of them. 
Hence it follows, that the objects of our natural desires are cheap, 
and easy to be obtained ; it being a maxim that holds throughout 
the whole system of created beings, " that nothing is made in 
vain," much less the instincts and appetites of animals, which 
the benevolence, as well as the wisdom of the Deity, is concerned 
to provide for. Nor is the fruition of those objects less pleasing, 
than the acquisition is easy ; and the pleasure is heightened by 
the sense of having answered some natural end, and the con- 
sciousness of acting in concert with the Supreme Governor of 
the universe. 

Under natural pleasures I comprehend those which are univer- 
sally suited, as well to the rational as the sensual part of our 
nature. And of the pleasures which affect our senses, those only 
are to be esteemed natural, that are contained within the rules of 
reason, which is allowed to be as necessary an ingredient of hu- 
man nature, as sense. And indeed, excesses of any kind are 
hardly to be esteemed pleasures, much less natural pleasures. 

It is evident that a desire terminated in money is fantastical ; 
so is the desire of outward distinctions, which bring no delight of 
sense, nor recommend us as useful to mankind ; and the desire 
of things, merely because they are new or foreign. Men who 
are indisposed to a due exertion of their higher parts, are driven 
to such pursuits as these, from the restlessness of the mind, and 
the sensitive appetites being easily satisfied. It is, in some sort, 
owing to the bounty of Providence, that, disdaining a cheap and 
vulgar happiness, they frame to themselves imaginary goods, in 
which there is nothing can raise desire, but the difficulty of ob- 
taining them. Thus men become the contrivers of their own 
misery, as a punishment to themselves, for departing from the 
measures of nature. Having, by an habitual reflection on these 
truths, made them familiar, the effect is, that I, among a number 
of persons who have debauched their natural taste, see things in 
a peculiar light, which I have arrived at, not by any uncommon 



142 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

force of genius, or acquired knowledge, but only by unlearning 
the false notions instilled by custom and education. 

The various objects that compose the world, were, by nature, 
formed to delight our senses ; and as it is this alone that makes 
them desirable to an uncorrupted taste, a man may be said natu- 
rally to possess them, when he possesses those enjoyments which 
they are fitted by nature to yield. Hence it is usual with me to 
consider myself as having a natural property in every object that 
administers pleasure to me. When I am in the country, all the 
fine seats near the place of my residence, and to which I have 
access, I regard as. mine. The same I think of the groves and 
fields where I walk, and muse on the folly of the civil landlord 
in London, who has the fantastical pleasure of draining dry rent 
into his coffers, but is a stranger to the fresh air and rural enjoy- 
ments. By these principles, I am possessed of half a dozen of 
the finest seats in England, which, in the eye of the law, belong 
to certain of my acquaintance, who, being men of business, choose 
to live near the court. 

In some great families, where I choose to pass my time, a 
stranger would be apt to rank me with the other domestics ; but, 
in my own thoughts and natural judgment, I am master of the 
house, and he who goes by that name is my steward, who eases 
me of the care of providing for myself the conveniencies and 
pleasures of life. 

When I walk the streets, I use the foregoing natural maxim, 
viz. : That he is the true possessor of a thing, who enjoys it, and 
not he that owns it without the enjoyment of it, to convince my- 
self that I have a property in the gay part of all the gilt chariots 
that I meet, which I regard as amusements designed to delight 
my eyes, and the imagination of those kind people who sit in 
them, gaily attired, only to please me, I have a real, they only 
an imaginary pleasure, from their exterior embellishments. Upon 
the same principle, I have discovered that I am the natural pro- 
prietor of all the diamond necklaces, the crosses, stars, brocades, 
and embroidered clothes, which I see at a play or birthnight, as 
giving more natural delight to the spectator, than to those that 
wear them. And I look on the beaus and ladies as so many 
parroquets in an aviary, or tulips in a garden, designed purely for 
my diversion. A gallery of pictures, a cabinet or library, that I 
have free access to, I think my own. In a word, all that 1 de- 
sire, is the use of things, let who will have the keeping of them ; 
by which maxim I am grown one of the richest men in Great 
Britain ; with this difference — that I am not a prey to my own 
cares, or the envy of others. 

The same principles I find of great use in my private economy. 
As I cannot go to the price of history painting, I have purchased, 
at easy rates, several beautifully designed pieces of landscape and 



SECT. V.] READING. 143 

perspective, which are much more pleasing to a natural taste, 
than unknown faces of Dutch gambols, though done by the best 
masters ; my couches, beds, and window curtains, are of Irish 
stuff, which those of that nation work very fine, and with a de- 
lightful mixture of colours. There is not a piece of china in my 
house ; but I have glasses of all sorts, and some tinged with the 
finest colours ; which are not the less pleasing because they are 
domestic, and cheaper than foreign toys. Every thing is neat, 
entire, and clean, and fitted to the taste of one who would rather 
be happy, than be thought rich. 

Every day numberless innocent and natural gratifications oc- 
cur to me, while I behold my fellow-creatures labouring in a 
toilsome and absurd pursuit of trifles ; one, thathe may be called 
by a particular appellation ; another, that he may wear a parti- 
cular ornament, which I regard as a piece of riband, that has an 
agreeable effect on my sight, but is so far from supplying the 
place of merit, where it is not, that it serves to make the want of 
it more conspicuous. Fair weather is the joy of my soul ; about 
noon, I behold a blue sky with rapture, and receive great conso- 
lation from the rosy dashes of light, which adorn the clouds both 
morning and evening. When I am lost among the green trees, 
I do not envy a great man, with a great crowd at his levee. 
And I often lay aside thoughts of going to an opera, that I may 
enjoy the silent pleasure of walking by moonlight, or viewing 
the stars sparkle in their azure ground; which I look upon as 
a part of my possessions, not without a secret indignation at the 
taste lessness of mortal men, who, in their race through life, over- 
look the real enjoyments of it. 

But the pleasure which naturally affects a human mind with 
the most lively and transporting touches, I take to be the sense 
that we act in the eye of infinite wisdom, power and goodness, 
that will crown our virtuous endeavours here, with a happiness 
hereafter, large as our desires, and lasting as our immortal souls. 
This is a perpetual spring of gladness in the mind. This lessens 
our calamities, and doubles our joys. Without this, the highest 
state of life is insipid ; and with it, the lowest is a paradise. 

IV. — The Folly and Madness of Jlmbition illustrated. 

Among the variety of subjects with which you have enter- 
tained and instructed the public, I do not remember that you 
have any where touched upon the folly and madness of ambition ; 
which, for the benefit of those who are dissatisfied with their 
present situations, I beg leave to illustrate, by giving the history 
of my own life. 

I am the son of a younger brother, of a good family, who, at 
his decease, left me a little fortune of a hundred pounds a year. 



144 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

I was put early to Eton school, where I learnt Latin and Greek ; 

from which I went to the university, where I learnt not 

totally to forget them. I came to my fortune while I was at* col- 
lege ; and having no inclination to follow any profession, I re- 
moved myself to town, and lived for some time as most young 
gentlemen do, by spending four times my income. But it was 
my happiness, before it was too late, to fall in love, and to marry 
a very amiable young creature, whose fortune was just sufficient 
to repair the breach made in my own. With this agreeable 
companion I retreated to the country, and endeavoured, as well 
as I was able, to square my wishes to my circumstances. In 
this endeavour I succeeded so well, that, except a few private 
hankerings after a little more than I possessed, and now and then 
a sigh, when a coach and six happened to drive by me in my 
walks, I was a very happy man. 

I can truly assure you, Mr. Fitz Adam, that though our family 
economy was not much to be boasted of, and in consequence of 
it, we were frequently driven to great straits and difficulties, I 
experienced mere real satisfaction in this humble situation, than 
I have ever done since, in more enviable circumstances. We 
were sometimes a little in debt ; but when money came in, the 
pleasure of discharging what we owed was more than equivalent 
for the pain it put us to ; and, though the narrowness of our cir- 
cumstances subjected us to many cares and anxieties, it served 
to keep the body in action, as well as the mind ; for, as our gar- 
den was somewhat large, and required more hands to keep it in 
order than we could afford to hire, we laboured daily in it our- 
selves, and drew health from our necessities. 

I had a little boy, who was the delight of my heart, and who 
probably might have been spoilt by nursing, if the attention of 
his parents had not been otherwise employed. His mother was 
naturally of a sickly constitution : but the affairs of her family, 
as they engrossed all her thoughts, gave her no time for com- 
plaint. The ordinary troubles of life, which, to those who have 
nothing else to think of, are almost insupportable, were less ter- 
rible to us, than to persons in easier circumstances ; for it is a 
certain truth, however your readers may please to receive it, 
that where the mind is divided between many cares, the anxiety 
is lighter than where there is only one to contend with. And 
even in the happiest situation, in the middle of ease, health, and 
affluence, the mind is generally ingenious at tormenting itself; 
losing the immediate enjoyment of those invaluable blessings, by 
the painful suggestion that they are too great for continuance. 

These are the reflections that I have had since ; for I do not 
attempt to deny, that I sighed frequently for an addition to my 
fortune. The death of a distant relation, which happened five 
years after our marriage, gave me this addition, and made me 



SECT. V.] READING. 145 

for a time the happiest man living. My income was now in- 
creased to six hundred a year; and I hoped, with a little econo- 
my, to be able to make a figure with it. But the ill health of 
my wife, which in less easy circumstances had not touched me 
so nearly, was now constantly in my thoughts, and soured all my 
enjoyments. The consciousness, too, of having such an estate 
to leave my boy, made me so anxious to preserve him, that, in- 
stead of suffering him to run at pleasure, where he pleased, and 
grow hardy by exercise, I almost destroyed him by confinement. 
We now did nothing in our garden, because we were in circum- 
stances to have it kept by others ; but as air and exercise were 
necessary for our healths, we resolved to abridge ourselves in 
some unnecessary articles, and to. set up an equipage. This, in 
time, brought with it a train of expenses, which we had neither 
prudence to foresee, nor courage to prevent. For as it enabled 
us to extend the circuit of our visits, it greatly increased our ac- 
quaintance, and subjected us to the necessity of making continual 
entertainments at home, in return for all those which we were in- 
vited to abroad. The charges that attended this new manner of 
living were much too great for the income we possessed ; insomuch 
that we found ourselves, in a very short time, more necessitous 
than ever. Pride would not suffer us to lay down our equipage ; 
and to live in a manner unsuitable to it, was what we could not 
bear to think of. To pay the debts we had contracted, I was 
soon forced to mortgage, and at last to sell, the best part of my 
estate ; and as it was utterly impossible to keep up the parade 
any longer, we thought it advisable to remove on a sudden, to 
sell our coach in town, and to look out for a new situation, at a 
greater distance from our acquaintance. 

But unfortunately for my peace, I carried the habit of expense 
along with me, and was very near being reduced to absolute 
want, when, by the unexpected death of an uncle and his two 
sons, who died within a few weeks of each other, I succeeded to 
an estate of seven thousand pounds a year. 

And now, Mr. Fitz Adam, both you and your readers will 
undoubtedly call me a very happy man ; and so indeed I was. 
I set about the regulation of my family, with the most pleasing 
satisfaction. The splendour of my equipages, the magnificence 
of my plate, the crowd of servants that attended me, the elegance 
of my house and furniture, the grandeur of my park and gardens, 
the luxury of my table, and the court that w T as every where paid 
me, gave me inexpressible delight, so long as they were novel- 
ties ; but no sooner were they become habitual to me, than I lost 
all manner of relish for them ; and I discovered, in a very little 
time, that, by having nothing to wish for, I had nothing to enjoy. 
My appetite grew pallid by satiety, a perpetual crowd of visiters 
IB K 



146 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

robbed me of all domestic enjoyment, my servants plagued me, 
and my steward cheated me. 

But the curse of greatness did not end here. Daily experience 
convinced me, that I was compelled to live more for others than 
myself. My uncle had been a great party man, and a zealous 
opposer of all ministerial measures ; and as his estate was the 
largest of any gentleman's in the country, he supported an inte- 
rest in it beyond any of his competitors. My father had been 
greatly obliged by the court party, which determined me in 
gratitude to declare myself on that side ; but the difficulties I had 
to encounter were too many and too great for me ; insomuch 
that I have been baffled and defeated in almost every thing I have 
undertaken. To desert the cause I have embarked in, would 
disgrace me, and to go greater lengths in it, would undo me. I 
am engaged in a perpetual state of warfare with the principal 
gentry of the country, and am cursed by my tenants and de- 
pendents, for compelling them, at every election, to vote (as they 
are pleased to tell me) contrary to their conscience. 

My wife and I had once pleased ourselves with the thought 
of being useful to the neighbourhood, by dealing out our charity 
to the poor and industrious ; but the perpetual hurry in which 
we live, renders us incapable of looking out for objects ourselves ; 
and the agents we intrust are either pocketing our bounty, or 
bestowing it on the undeserving. At night, when we retire to 
rest, we are venting our complaints on the miseries of the day, 
and praying heartily for the return of that peace, which was the 
only companion of our humblest situation. 

This, sir, is my history ; and if you give it a place in your 
paper, it may serve to inculcate this important truth — that where 
pain, sickness, and absolute want, are out of the question, no ex- 
ternal change of circumstances can make a man more lastingly 
happy than he was before. It is to the ignorance of this truth, 
that the universal dissatisfaction of mankind is principally to be 
ascribed. Care is the lot of life; and he that aspires to great- 
ness, in hopes to get rid of it, is like one who throws himself into 
a furnace to avoid the shivering of an ague. 

The only satisfaction I can enjoy in my present situation is, 
that it has not pleased heaven, in its wrath, to make me a king. 

V. — Battle of Pharsalia, and Death of Pompey. 

As the armies approached, the two generals went from rank 
io rank encouraging their troops. Pompey represented to his 
■men, that the glorious occasion which they had long besought 
him to grant, was now before them ; " And, indeed," cried he, 
*' what advantages could you wish over an enemy, that you are 
riot now possessed of/ Your numbers, your vigour, a late vie- 



SECT. V.] READING. 147 

tory, all ensure a speedy and an easy conquest over those ha- 
rassed and broken troops, composed of men worn out with age, 
and impressed with the terrors of a recent defeat : but there is 
still a stronger bulwark for our protection, than the superiority 
of our strength — the justice of our cause. You are engaged in 
the defence of the liberty of your country. You are supported by 
its laws, and followed by its magistrates. You have the world 
spectators of your conduct, and wishing you success. — On the 
contrary, he whom you oppose, is a robber and oppressor of his 
country, and almost already sunk with the consciousness of his 
crimes, as well as the bad success of his arms. Show, then, on 
this occasion, all that candour and detestation of tyranny, that 
should animate Romans, and do justice to mankind." Caesar, 
on his side, went among his men with that steady serenity, for 
which he was so much admired in the midst of danger. He in- 
sisted on nothing so strongly, to his soldiers, as his frequent and 
unsuccessful endeavours for peace. He talked with terror on 
the blood he was going to shed, and pleaded only the necessity 
that urged him to it. He deplored the many brave men that 
were to fall on both sides, and the wounds of his country, who- 
ever should be victorious. His soldiers answered his speech 
with looks of ardour and impatience ; which observing, he gave 
the signal to begin. The word on Pompey's side, was Hercules 
the invincible ; that on Caesar's, Venus the victorious. There 
was only so much space between both armies, as to give room 
for fighting: wherefore, Pompey ordered his men to receive the 
first shock, without moving out of their places, expecting the 
enemy's ranks to be put into disorder by their motion. Caesar's 
soldiers were now rushing on with their usual impetuosity, 
when, perceiving the enemy motionless, they all stopt short, as 
if by general consent, and halted in the midst of their career. A 
terrible pause ensued, in which both armies continued to gaze 
upon each other, with mutual terror. At length Caesar's men, 
having taken breath, ran furiously upon the enemy, first dis- 
charging their javelins, and then drawing their swords. The 
same method was observed by Pompey's troops, who as vigor- 
ously opposed the attack. His cavalry, also, were ordered to 
charge at the very onset, which, with a multitude of archers and 
slingers, soon obliged Caesar's men to give ground : whereupon 
Caesar immediately ordered the six cohorts, that were placed as 
a reinforcement, to advance, with orders to strike at the enemy's 
faces. This had its desired effect. The cavalry, that were but 
just now sure of victory, received an immediate check ; the un- 
sual method of fighting pursued by the cohorts, their aiming en- 
tirely at the visages of the assailants, and the horrible disfiguring 
wounds they made, all contributed to intimidate them so much, 
that, instead of defending their persons, their only endeavour 



148 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

was to save their faces. A total rout ensued of their whole 
body, which fled in great disorder to the neighbouring moun- 
tains, while the archers and slingers, who were thus abandoned, 
were cut to pieces. Csesar now commanded the cohorts to pur- 
sue their success, and advancing, charged Pompey's troops upon 
the flank. This charge the enemy withstood for some time with 
great bravery, till he brought up his third line, which had not 
yet engaged. Pompey's infantry, being thus doubly attacked, 
in front by fresh troops, and in rear by the victorious cohorts, 
could no longer resist, but fled to their camp. The right wing, 
however, still valiantly maintained their ground. But Csesar, 
being now convinced that the victory was certain, with his usual 
clemency, cried out, to pursue the strangers, and to spare the 
Romans ; upon which they all laid down their arms, and received 
quarter. The greatest slaughter was among the auxiliaries, who 
fled on all quarters, but principally went for safety to the camp. 
The battle had now lasted from the break of day till noon, al- 
though the weather was extremely hot; the conquerors, how- 
ever, did not remit their ardour, being encouraged by the ex- 
ample of their general, who thought his victory not complete till 
he became master of the enemy's camp. Accordingly, marching 
on foot, at their head, he called upon them to follow, and strike 
the decisive blow. The cohorts which were left to defend the 
camp, for some time made a formidable resistance, particularly a 
great number of Thracians, and other barbarians, who were ap- 
pointed for its defence ; but nothing could resist the ardour of 
Caesar's victorious army ; they were at last driven from their 
trenches, and all fled to the mountains, not far off. Csesar seeing 
the field and camp strewed with his fallen countrymen, was 
strongly affected at so melancholy a prospect, and could not help 
crying out to one that stood near him, " They would have it so." 
Upon entering the enemy's camp, every object presented fresh 
instances of the blind presumption and madness of his adversa- 
ries. On all sides were to be seen tents adorned with ivy, and 
branches of myrtles, couches covered with purple, and sideboards 
loaded with plate. Every thing gave proofs of the highest lux- 
ury, and seemed rather the preparatives for a banquet, the 
rejoicings for a victory, than the dispositions for a battle. 

As for Pompey, who had formerly shown such instances of 
courage and conduct, when he saw his cavalry routed, on which 
he had placed his sole dependence, he absolutely lost his reason. 
Instead of thinking how to remedy this disorder, by rallying such 
troops as fled, or by opposing fresh troops to stop the progress of 
the conquerors, being totally amazed by this unexpected blow, 
he returned to the camp, and in his tent waited the issue of an 
event which it was his duty to direct, not to follow. There he 
remained for some moments without speaking; till being told 






SECT. V.] READING. 149 

that the camp was attacked, " What," says he, " are we pursued 
to our very entrenchments?" And immediately quitting his 
armour, for a habit more suitable to his circumstances, he fled on 
horseback ; giving way to all the agonizing reflections which his 
deplorable situation must naturally suggest. In this melancholy 
manner he passed along the vale of Tempe, and pursuing the 
course of the river Peneus, at last arrived at a fisherman's hut, 
in which he passed the night. From thence he went on board 
a little bark, and keeping along the seashore, he descried a ship 
of some burden, which seemed preparing to sail, in which he 
embarked, the master of the vessel still paying him the homage 
that was due to his former station. From the mouth of the river 
Peneus he sailed to Amphipolis ; where, finding his affairs des- 
perate, he steered to Lesbos, to take in his wife Cornelia, whom 
he had left there, at a distance from the dangers and hurry of 
war. She, who had long flattered herself with the hopes of vic- 
tory, felt the reverse of her fortune in an agony of distress. She 
was .desired by the messenger (whose tears, more than words, 
proclaimed the greatness of her misfortunes) to hasten, if she ex- 
pected to see Pompey with but one ship, and even that not his 
own. Her grief, which before was violent, became now insup- 
portable ; she fainted away, and lay a considerable time without 
any signs of life. At length, recovering herself, and reflecting 
that it was now no time for vain lamentations, she ran quite 
through the city to the seaside. Pompey embraced her without 
speaking a word, and for some time supported her in his arms in 
silent despair. 

Having taken in Cornelia, he now continued his course, steer- 
ing to the southeast, and stopping no longer than was necessary 
to take in provisions at the ports that occurred in his passage. 
He was at last prevailed upon to apply to Ptolemy, king of 
Egypt, to whose father Pompey had been a considerable bene- 
factor. Ptolemy, who was as yet a minor, had not the govern- 
ment in his own hands, but he and his kingdom were under the 
direction of Phontinus, a eunuch, and Theodotus, a master of the 
art of speaking. These advised that Pompey should be invited 
on shore, and there slain ; and accordingly, Achilles, the com- 
mander of the forces, and Septimius, by birth a Roman, and who 
had formerly been a centurion in Pompey's army, were ap- 
pointed to carry their opinion into execution. Being attended 
by three or four more, they went into a little bark, and rowed 
off' from land towards Pompey's ship, that lay about a mile from 
the shore. Pompey, after taking leave of Cornelia, who wept at 
his departure, and having repeated two, verses of Sophocles, sig- 
nifying, that he who trusts his freedom to a tyrant, from that mo- 
ment becomes a slave ; gave his hand to Achilles, and stepped 
into the bark, with only two attendants of his own, They had 
13* 



150 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

now rowed from the ship a good way, and, as during that time 
they all kept a profound silence, Pompey, willing to begin the 
discourse, accosted Septimius, whose face he recollected — " Me- 
thinks, friend," cried he, " you and I were once fellow-soldiers 
together." Septimius gave only a nod with his head, without 
uttering a word, or instancing the least civility. Pompey, there- 
fore, took out a paper, on which he had minuted a speech he in- 
tended to make to the king, and began reading it. In this man- 
ner they approached the shore ; and Cornelia, whose concern 
had never suffered her to lose sight of her husband, began to 
conceive hope, when she perceived the people on the strand 
crowding down along the coast, as if willing to receive him ; but 
her hopes were soon destroyed ; for that instant, as Pompey rose, 
supporting himself upon his freedman's arm, Septimius stabbed 
him in the back, and was instantly seconded by Achilles. Pom- 
pey, perceiving his death inevitable, only disposed himself to 
meet it with decency ; and covering his face with his robe, with- 
out speaking a word, with a sigh resigned himself to his fate. 
At this horrid sight, Cornelia shrieked so loud as to be heard to 
the shore ; but the danger she herself was in, did not allow the 
mariners time to look on ; they immediately set sail, and the wind 
proving favourable, fortunately they escaped the pursuit of the 
Egyptian galleys. In the meantime, Pompey's murderers, hav- 
ing cut off his head, caused it to be embalmed, the better te pre- 
serve its features, designing it for a present to Caesar. The body 
was thrown naked on the strand, and exposed to the view of all 
those whose curiosity led them that way. However, his faithful 
freedman, Philip, still kept near it ; and when the crowd was 
dispersed, he washed it in the sea ; and looking round for mate- 
rials to burn it with, he perceived the wreck of a fishing-boat, 
of which he composed a pile. While he was thus piously em- 
ployed, he was accosted by an old Roman soldier, who had 
served under Pompey in his youth. « Who art thou," said he, 
" that art making these humble preparations for Pompey's fune- 
ral ?" Philip having answered that he was one of his freedmen, 
" Alas !" replied the soldier, " permit me to share in this honour 
also ; among all the miseries of my exile, it will be my last sad 
comfort, that I have been able to assist at the funeral of my old 
commander, and touch the body of the bravest general that ever 
Rome produced." After this, they both joined in giving the 
corpse the last rites ; and collecting his ashes, buried them under 
a little rising earth, scraped together with their hands; over 
which was afterwards placed the following inscription : — "He 
whose merits deserve a temple, can scarce find a tomb." 



SECT. V.] READING. 151 



VI. — Character of King Alfred. 

The merit of this prince, both in private and public life, may, 
with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any monarch or 
citizen which the annals of any nation or any age can present lo 
us. He seems, indeed, to be the complete model of that perfect 
character which, under the denomination of a sage or wise man, 
the philosophers have been fond of delineating rather as a fiction 
of their imagination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to 
practice ; so happily were all his virtues tempered together, so 
justly were they blended, and so powerfully did each prevent 
the other from exceeding its proper bounds ! He knew how to 
conciliate the boldest enterprise with the coldest moderation ; the 
most obstinate perseverance with the easiest flexibility; the most 
severe justice with the greatest lenity; the most vigorous com- 
mand with the greatest affability of deportment; the highest 
capacity and inclination for science with the most shining talents 
for action. His civil and military virtues are almost equally the 
objects of our admiration ; excepting, only, that the former being 
more rare among princes, as well as more useful, seem chiefly 
to challenge our applause. Nature, also, as if desirous that so 
bright a production of her skill should be set in the fairest light, 
had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments : vigour of 
limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and 
open countenance. Fortune alone, by throwing him into that 
barbarous age, deprived him of historians worthy to transmit his 
fame to posterity ; and we wish to see him delineated in more 
lively colours, and with more particular strokes, that we may at 
least perceive some of those small specks and blemishes, from 
which, as a man, it is impossible he could be entirely exempted. 

VII. — Awkwardness in Company. 

When an awkward fellow first comes into a room, he attempts 
to bow, and his sword, if he wears one, gets between his legs, 
and nearly throws him down. Confused and ashamed, he 
stumbles to the upper end of the room, and seats himself in the 
very place where he should not. He there begins playing with 
his hat, which he presently drops ; and recovering his hat, he 
lets fall his cane ; and in picking up his cane, down goes his hat- 
again. Thus, it is a considerable time before he is adjusted. 

When his tea or coffee is handed to him, he spreads his hand- 
kerchief upon his knees, scalds his mouth, drops either the cup 
or saucer, and spills the tea or coffee in his lap. At dinner, he 
seats himself upon the edge of the chair, at so great a distance 
from the table,, that he frequently drops the meat between his 



152 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

plate and his mouth ; he holds his knife, fork, and spoon, differ- 
ently from other people ; eats with his knife, to the manifest 
danger of his mouth ; and picks his teeth with his fork. 

If he is to carve, he cannot hit the joint ; but in labouring to 
cut through the bone, splashes the sauce over every body's 
clothes. He generally daubs himself all over; his elbows are 
in the next person's plate ; and he is up to the knuckles in soup 
and grease. If he drinks, it is with his mouth full, interrupting 
the whole company with — "To your good health, sir," and 
" My service to you :" perhaps coughs in his glass, and be- 
sprinkles the whole table. 

He addresses the company by improper titles, as, Sir, for My 
Lord; mistakes one name for another; and tells you of Mr. 
Whatd'yecallhim, or You know who; Mrs. Thingum, What's 
her name, or How d'ye call her. He begins a story ; but not 
being able to finish it, breaks off in the middle, with — "I've 
forgot the rest." 



VIII. — Virtue, Maris highest Interest. 

I find myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every 
way by an immense unknown expansion. — Where am I? 
What sort of a place do I inhabit ? Is it exactly accommodated, 
in every instance, to my convenience ? Is there no excess of 
cold, none of heat, to offend me ? Am I never annoyed by ani- 
mals, either of my own kind or a different ? Is every thing sub- 
servient to me, as though 1 had ordered all myself? No, nothing 
like it — the farthest from it possible. The world appears not, 
then, originally made for the private convenience of me alone ? 
It does not. But is it not possible so to accommodate it, by my 
own particular industry ? If to accommodate man and beast, 
heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possible. What 
consequence, then, follows ? Or can there be any other than 
this ? If I seek an interest of my own, detached from that of 
others, I seek an interest which is chimerical, and can never 
have existence. 

How then must I determine ? Have I no interest at all ? If 
I have not, I am a fool for staying here : 'Tis a smoky house, 
and the sooner out of it the better. But why no interest ? Can 
I be contented with none but one separated and detached ? Is a 
social interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be 
admitted? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herding ani- 
mals, are enough to convince me that the thing is, somewhere, 
at least, possible. How then, am I assured that it is not equally 
true of man ? Admit it, and what follows ? If so, then honour 
and justice are my interest; then the whole train of moral virtues 



SECT. V.] READING. 153 

are my interest ; without some portion of which, not even thieves 
can maintain society. 

Bat farther still — I stop not here — I pursue this social inter- 
est as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my 
own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to the whole 
race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth. Am I not 
related to them all, by the mutual aids of commerce, by the 
general intercourse of arts and letters, by that common nature of 
which we all participate ? 

Again — I must have food and clothing. Without a proper 
genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not related, in this 
view, to the very earth itself? To the distant sun, from whose 
beams I derive vigour ? To that stupendous course and order 
of the infinite host of heaven, by which the times and seasons 
ever uniformly pass on ? Were this order once confounded, I 
could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend 
on this common, general welfare. What then have I to do but 
to enlarge virtue into piety ! Not only honour and justice, and 
what I owe to man, are my interest : but gratitude also, acqui- 
escence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, 
and its great Governor, our common Parent. 

IX. — On the Pleasures arising from Objects of Sight. 

Those pleasures of the imagination which arise from the actual 
view and survey of outward objects, all proceed from the sight 
of what is great, uncommon, or beautiful. 

By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single ob- 
ject, but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one entire 
piece. Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, 
a vast uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high 
rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of waters ; where we 
are not struck with the novelty or beauty of the sight, but with 
that rude kind of magnificence, which appears in many of these 
stupendous works of nature. Our imagination loves to be filled 
with an object, or to grasp at any thing that is too big for its ca- 
pacity. We are flung into a pleasing astonishment at such un- 
bounded views, and feel a delightful stillness and amazement in 
the soul, at the apprehensions of them. The mind of man natu- 
rally hates every thing that looks like restraint upon it, and is 
apt to fancy itself under a sort of confinement, when the sight is 
pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened, on every side, by 
the neighbourhood of walls and mountains. On the contrary, a 
spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room 
to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its 
views, and to lose itself amidst the variety of objects that offer 
themselves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined 



154 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

prospects are as pleasing to the fancy, as the speculations of 
eternity or infinitude are to the understanding. But if there be 
a beauty or uncommonness joined with this grandeur, as in a 
troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with stars and meteors, or a 
spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, 
the pleasure still grows upon us, as it rises from more than a 
single principle. 

Every thing that is new or uncommon, raises a pleasure in 
the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable sur- 
prise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was 
not before possessed. We are, indeed, so often conversant with 
one set of objects, and tired out with so many repeated shows of 
the same things, that whatever is new or uncommon contributes 
a little to vary human life, and to divert our minds, for a while, 
with the strangeness of its appearance ; it serves us for a kind 
of refreshment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt to com- 
plain of, in our usual and ordinary entertainments. It is this 
that bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the imper- 
fections of nature please us. It is this that recommends variety, 
where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and 
the attention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself on 
any particular object. It is this, likewise, that improves what is 
great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double enter- 
tainment. Groves, fields, and meadows, are, at any season of the 
year, pleasant to look upon ; but never so much as in the open- 
ing of the spring, when they are all new and fresh, with their 
first gloss upon them, and not yet too much accustomed and 
familiar to the eye. For this reason, there is nothing that more 
enlivens a prospect, than rivers, jetteaus, or fails of water, where 
the scene is perpetually shifting, and entertaining the sight every 
moment, with something that is new. We are quickly tired 
with looking upon hills and valleys, where every thing continues 
fixed and settled in the same place and posture, but find our 
thoughts a little agitated and relieved, at the sight of such ob- 
jects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the 
eye of the beholder. 

But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the 
soul, than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret satisfac- 
tion and complacency through the imagination, and gives a fin- 
ishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. The very first 
discovery of it strikes the mind with an inward joy, and spreads 
a cheerfulness and delight througli all its faculties. There is 
not, perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more in one piece of 
matter than another; because we might have been so made, that 
whatsoever now appears loathsome to us, might have shown it- 
self agreeable ; but we find by experience, that there are several 
modifications of matter, which the mind, without any previous 



SECT. V.] READING. 155 

consideration, pronounces at the first sight? beautiful or deformed. 
Thus we see that every different species of sensible creatures 
has its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most 
affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where 
more remarkable than in birds of the same shape and proportion, 
where we often see the male determined in his courtship by the 
single grain or tincture of a feather, and never discovering any 
charms but in the colour of its species. 

There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the several 
products of art and nature, which does not work in the imagina- 
tion with that warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears 
in our own proper species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a 
secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the places, or objects, 
in which we discover it. This consists either in the gaiety or 
variety of colours, in the symmetry and proportion of parts, in 
the arrangement and disposition of bodies, or in a just mixture 
and concurrence of all together. Among these several kinds of 
beauty, the eye takes most delight in colours. We nowhere 
meet with a more glorious or pleasing show in nature, than what 
appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, which 
is wholly made up of those different strains of light, that show 
themselves in clouds of a different situation. For this reason we 
find the poets, who are always addressing themselves to the 
imagination, borrowing more of their epithets from colours, than 
from any other topic. 

As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or 
beautiful, and is still more pleased, the more it finds of these 
perfections in the same object ; so it is capable of receiving a 
new satisfaction, by the assistance of another sense. Thus any 
continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of water, awak- 
ens, every moment, the mind of the beholder, and makes him 
more attentive to the several beauties of the places that lie before 
him. Thus, if there arise a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, 
they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, and make even 
the colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable ; 
for the ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are plea- 
santer together, than when they enter the mind separately ; as 
the different colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, 
set off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the 
advantage of their situation. 

X. — Liberty and Slavery. 

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, slavery ! still thou art a 
bitter draught ! and though thousands, in all ages, have been 
made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It 
is thou, liberty ! thrice sweet and gracious goddess, whom all, in 



156 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

public or in private, worship ; whose taste is grateful, and ever 
will be so, till nature herself shall change. No tint of words can 
spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into 
iron. With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the 
swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art 
exiled. Gracious heaven ! grant me but health, thou great be- 
stower of it ! And give me but this fair goddess as my com- 
panion ; and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy 
Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them. 

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close to my table ; and, lean- 
ing my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the mise- 
ries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave 
full scope to my imagination. 

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures, 
born to. no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affect- 
ing the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that 
the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me, I took a 
single captive ; and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I 
then looked through the twilight of his grated door, to take his 
picture. 

I beheld his body half wasted away, with long expectation and 
confinement ; and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is, 
which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw 
him pale and feverish. In thirty years the western breeze had 
not once fanned his blood — he had seen no sun, no moon, in all 
that time — nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed 
through his lattice. His children — but here my heart began to 
bleed — and I was forced to go on with another part of the 
portrait. 

He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw, in the 
farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair 
and bed. A little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head ; 
notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed 
there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand ; and, with 
a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery to add to the 
heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a 
hopeless eye towards the door — then cast it down — shook his 
head — and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his 
chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick 
upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter 
into his soul. I burst into tears. I could not sustain the picture 
of confinement which my fancy had drawn; 

XL — The Cant of Criticism. 
And how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night? — 



Oh, against all rule, my Lord ; most ungrammatically ! Betwixt 



SECT. V.] READING. 157 

the substantive and the adjective (which should agree together, 
in number, case, and gender) he made a breach thus — stopping 
as if the point wanted settling. And after the nominative case, 
(which your Lordship knows should govern the verb) he sus- 
pended his voice, in the epilogue, a dozen times, three seconds 
and three-fifths, by a stop-w r atch, my Lord, each time. Admira- 
ble grammarian ! But, in suspending his voice, was the sense 
suspended likewise ? Did no expression of attitude or counte- 
nance fill up the chasm ? Was the eye silent ? Did you nar- 
rowly look? I looked only at the stop-watch, my Lord. Excel- 
lent observer ! 

And what of this new book, the whole world makes such a 
rout about ? Oh, 'tis out of all plumb, my Lord — quite an irre- 
gular thing! Not one of the angles at the four corners was a 
right angle. I had my rule and compasses, my Lord, in my 
pocket. Excellent critic ! 

And for. the epic poem, your Lordship bade me look at, — 
upon taking the length, breadth, height, and depth, of it, and 
trying them at home, upon an exact scale of Bossau's, 'tis out, 
my Lord, in every one of its dimensions. Admirable connois- 
seur ! 

And did you step in to take a look at the grand picture, in 
your way back ? 'Tis a melancholy daub, my Lord ; not one 
principle of the pyramid in any one group ! And what a price ! 
For there is nothing of the colouring of Titian — -the expression 
of Rubens — the grace of Raphael — the purity of Dominichino— 
the corregioscity of Corregio — the learning of Poussin — the airs 
of Guido — the taste of Carrachis — or the grand contour of 
Angelo. 

Grant me patience ! Of all the cants which are canted, in this 
canting world — though the cant of hypocrisy may be the worst 
— the cant of criticism is the most tormenting ! I would go fifty 
miles on foot, to kiss the hand of that man whose generous heart 
will give up the reins of his imagination into his author's hands, 
be pleased, he knows not why, and cares not wherefore. 



XII. — Parallel between Pope and Dry den. 

In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to 
Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, before 
he became an author, had been allowed more time for study, 
with better means of information. His mind has a larger range, 
and he collects his images and illustrations from a more extensive 
circumference of science. Dryden knew more of man, in his 
general nature ; and Pope, in his local manners. The notions 
of Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation ; those of 
14 



158 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

Pope, by minute attention. There is more dignity in the know- 
ledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. 

Poetry was not the sole praise of either ; for both excelled like- 
wise in prose : but Pope did not borrow his prose from his pre- 
decessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied ; that 
of Pope is cautious and uniform : Dryden obeys the motions of 
his own mind ; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of 
composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid ; Pope 
is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden's page is a 
natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the va- 
ried exuberance of abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a velvet lawn, 
shaven by the scythe, and levelled by the roller. 

Of genius — that power that constitutes a poet ; that quality, 
without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert; that 
energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates — the 
superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. 
It is not to be inferred, that of this poetical vigour, Pope had only 
a little, because Dryden had more ; for every other writer, since 
Milton, must give place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must be 
said, that if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems. 
Dryden's performances were always hasty ; either excited by 
some external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity ; he 
composed without consideration, and published without correc- 
tion. What his mind could supply at call, or gather in one ex- 
cursion, was all that he sought, and all that he gave. The dila- 
tory caution of Pope enabled him to condense his sentiments, to 
multiply his images, and to accumulate all that study might pro- 
duce, or change might supply. If the flights of Dryden, there- 
fore, are higher, Pope continues longer on the wing. If of Dry- 
den's fire the blaze is brighter ; of Pope's the heat is more regu- 
lar and constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope 
never falls below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, 
and Pope with perpetual delight. 

XIII. — Story of Le Fever. 

It was some time in the summer of that year in which Den- 
dermond was taken by the allies, when my uncle Toby was one 
evening getting his supper, with Trim sitting beside him, at a 
small sideboard — I say sitting; for — in consideration of the corpo- 
ral's lame knee (which sometimes gave him exquisite pain) — 
when my uncle Toby dined or supped alone, he would never 
suffer the corporal to stand : and the poor fellow's veneration 
for his master was such, that, with a proper artillery, my uncle 
Toby could have taken Dendermond itself, with less trouble than 
he was able to gain this point over him : for many a time when 
my uncle Toby supposed the corporal's leg was at rest, he would 



SECT. V.] READING. 159 

look back, and detect him standing behind him, with the most 
dutiful respect ; this bred more little squabbles betwixt them, than 
all other causes, for five-and-twenty years together. 

He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when the land- 
lord of a little inn in the village came into the parlour, with an 
empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of sack : 'Tis for 
a poor gentleman — I think of the army, said the landlord, who 
has been taken ill at my house four days ago, and has never 
held up his head since, or had a desire to taste any thing till 
just now, that he had a fancy for a glass of sack, and a thin 
toast. " I think," says he, taking his hand from his forehead, 
"it would comfort me." — 

— If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy such a thing, added 
the landlord, I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he 
is so ill. I hope he will still mend, continued he — we are all of 
us concerned for him. 

Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried 
my uncle Toby ; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's 
health in a glass of sack thyself — and take a couple of bottles, 
with my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, 
and to a dozen more, if they will do him good. 
■ Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the landlord 
shut the door, he is a very compassionate fellow, Trim — yet I 
cannot help entertaining a high opinion of his guest too ; there 
must be something more than common in him, that, in so short 
a time, should win so much upon the affections of his host — and 
of his own family, added the corporal, for they are all concerned 
for him. Step after him, said my uncle Toby — do Trim, and 
ask if he knows his name. 

I have quite forgot it, truly, said the landlord, coming back 
into the parlour with the corporal — but I can ask his son again. 
Has he a son with him, then ? said my uncle Toby. A boy, 
replied the landlord, of about eleven or twelve years of age ; — 
but the poor creature has tasted almost as little as his father ; he 
does nothing but mourn and lament for him night and day. He 
has not stirred from the bed-side these two days. 

My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his 
plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account ; 
and Trim, without being ordered, took them away, without say- 
ing one word, and in a few minutes after brought him his pipe 
and tobacco. 

Trim ! said my uncle Toby, I have a project in my head, as 
it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in my roquelaure, 
and paying a visit to this poor gentleman. Your honour's 
roquelaure, replied the corporal, has not once been had on since 
the night before your honour received your wound, when we 
mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St. Nicholas ; 



160 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

— and besides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that, what with the 
roquelaure, and what with the weather, it will be enough to give 
your honour your death. I fear so, replied my uncle Toby ; 
but I am not at rest in my mind, Trim, since the account the 
landlord has given me — I wish I had not known so much of this 
affair, added my uncle Toby — or that I had known more of it. 
How shall we manage it? Leave it, an't please your honour, 
to me, quoth the corporal; — I'll take my hat and stick, and go 
to the house, and reconnoitre, and act accordingly ; and I will 
bring your honour a full account in an hour. Thou shalt go, 
Trim, said my uncle Toby, and here's a shilling for thee to drink 
with his servant. I shall get it all out of him, said the corporal, 
shutting the door. 

It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of 
his third pipe, that corporal Trim returned from the inn, and 
gave him the following account : — 

I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring 
back your honour any kind of intelligence concerning the poor 
sick lieutenant. — Is he of the army, then ? said my uncle Toby. 
He is, said the corporal. — And in what regiment ? said my uncle 
Toby. I'll tell your honour, replied the corporal, every thing 
straight forward, as I learned it. Then, Trim, I '11 fill another 
pipe, said my uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee ; so sit down 
at thy ease, Trim, in the window seat, and begin thy story again. 
The corporal made his old bow, which generally spoke as plain 
as a bow could speak it, "Your honour is good ;" and having 
done that, he sat down, as he was ordered, and began the story 
to my uncle Toby over again, in pretty near the same words. 

I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring 
back any intelligence to your honour about the lieutenant and 
his son ; for when I asked where his servant was, from whom I 
made myself sure of knowing every thing that was proper to be 
asked — That's a right distinction, Trim, said my uncle Toby — I 
was answered, an't please your honour, that he had no servant 
with him; — that he had come to the inn with hired horses, 
which, upon finding himself unable, to proceed, (to join, I sup- 
pose, the regiment) he had dismissed the morning after he came. 
If I get better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to his son 
to pay the man, we can hire horses from hence. But alas ! the 
poor gentleman will never get from hence, said the landlady to 
me, for I heard the death-watch all night long — and when he 
dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him ; for he is 
broken-hearted already. 

I was hearing this account, continued the corporal, when the 
youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord 
spoke of; but T will do it for my father myself, said the youth. 
Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentleman, said I, 



SECT. V.] READING, 161 

taking up a fork for the purpose, and offering him my chair to 
sit down upon by the fire, whilst I did it. I believe, sir, said 
he, very modestly, I can please him best myself. I am sure, 
said I, his honour will not like the toast the worse for being 
toasted by an old soldier. The youth took hold of my hand, 
and instantly burst into tears. Poor youth ! said my uncle 
Toby, he has been bred up from an infant in the army, and the 
name of a soldier, Trim, sounded in his ears like the name of a 
friend. I wish I had him here. 

— I never, in the longest march, said the corporal, had so 
great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for com- 
pany: — what could be the matter with me, an't please your 
honour? Nothing in the world, Trim, said my uncle Toby, 
blowing his nose, but that thou art a good-natured fellow. 

When I gave him the toast, continued the corporal, I thought 
it was proper to tell him I was Captain Shandy's servant, and 
that your honour (though a stranger) was extremely concerned 
for his father ; and that if there was any thing in your house or 
cellar — (And thou mightest have added my purse too, said my 
uncle Toby) — he was heartily welcome to it. He made a very 
low bow (which was meant to your honour) — but no answer — 
for his heart was full : so he went up stairs with the toast. I 
warrant you, my dear, said I, as I opened the kitchen door, your 
father will be well again. Mr. Yorick's curate was smoking a 
pipe by the kitchen fire, but said not a word, good or bad, to 
comfort the youth. I thought it wrong, added the corporal — I 
think so too, said my uncle Toby. 

When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack, and toast, 
he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to 
let me know that in about ten minutes he should be glad if I 
would step up stairs. I believe, said the landlord, he is going 
to say his prayers— for there was a book laid upon the chair by 
his bed-side ; and as I shut the door, I saw his son take up a 
cushion. 

I thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the army, 
Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all. I heard the poor 
gentleman say his prayers last night, said the landlady, very 
devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have believed it. 
Are you sure of it ? replied the curate. A soldier, an't please 
your reverence, said I, prays as often (of his own accord) as a 
parson ; and when he is fighting for his king, and for his own 
life, and for his honour too, he has the most reason to pray to 
God of any one in the whole world. 'T was well said of thee, 
Trim, said my uncle Toby. But when a soldier, said I, an't 
please your reverence, has been standing for twelve hours to- 
gether in the trenches, up to his knees in cold water — or en- 
^ao-ed, said I, for months together, in long and dangerous 
14* L 



162 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

marches ; harassed, perhaps, in his rear to-day ; harassing others 
to-morrow ; — detached here — countermanded there — resting this 
night out upon his arms — beat up in his shirt the next — be- 
numbed in his joints — perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel 
on — he must say his prayers how and when he can. I believe, 
said I — for I was piqued, quoth the. corporal, for the reputation 
of the army — I believe, an't please your reverence, said I, that 
when a soldier gets time to pray, he prays as heartily as a par- 
son, though not with all his fuss and hypocrisy. Thou shouldst 
not have said that, Trim, said my uncle Toby, for God only 
knows who is a hypocrite and who is not. At the great and 
general review of us all, corporal, at the day of judgment, (and 
not till then) it will be seen who have done their duties in this 
world, and who have not ; and we shall be advanced, Trim, 
accordingly. I hope we shall, said Trim. It is in the scripture, 
said my uncle Toby ; and I will show it thee to-morrow. In the 
mean time, we may depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort, said 
my uncle Toby, that God Almighty is so good and just a gover- 
nor of the world, that if we have but done our duties in it, it will 
never be inquired into whether we have done them in a red coat 
or a black one. I hope not, said the corporal. But go on, 
Trim, said my uncle Toby, with the story. 

When I went up, continued the corporal, into the lieutenant's 
room, which I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes, 
he was laying in his bed, with his head raised upon his hand, 
his elbows upon the pillow, and a clean white cambric handker- 
chief beside it. The youth was just stooping down to take up 
the cushion upon which I supposed he had been kneeling — the 
book was laid upon the bed — and as he rose, in taking up the 
cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take the book 
away at the same time. Let it remain there, my dear, said the 
lieutenant. 

He did not offer to speak to me, till I had walked up close to 
his bed-side. If you are Captain Shandy's servant, said he, you 
must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy's 
thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me ; — if he was of 
Levens, said the lieutenant — I told him your honour was — 
then, said he, I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, 
and remember him ; but it is most likely, as 1 had not the honour 
of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me. 
You will tell him, however, that the person his good nature has 
laid under obligations to him, is one Le Fever, a lieutenant in 
Angus's; — but he knows me not — said he a second time, 
musing; — possibly he may my story; added he — pray tell the 
captain I was the ensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfor- 
tunately killed with a musket-shot, as she lay in my arms in my 
tent. I remember the story, an't please your honour, said I, 



SECT. V.] READING. 163 

very well. Do you so ? said he, wiping his eyes with his hand- 
kerchief — then well may I. In saying this, he drew a little ring 
out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a black riband about 
his neck, and kissed it twice. Here, Billy, said he — the boy 
flew across the room to the bed-side, and falling down upon his 
knee, took the ring in his hand, and kissed it too, then kissed his 
father, and sat down upon the bed and wept. 

I wish, said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh — I wish, Trim, 
I was asleep. 

Your honour, replied the corporal, is too much concerned; 
shall I pour your honour out a glass of sack to your pipe ? Do, 
Trim, said my uncle Toby. 

I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the story of 
the ensign and his wife, and particularly well, that he as well as 
she, upon some account or other, (I forget what,) was univer- 
sally pitied by the whole regiment; but finish the story. 'Tis 
finished already, said the corporal, for I could stay no longer, so 
wished his honour a good night ; young Le Fever rose from off 
the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs ; and as we went 
down together, told me they had come from Ireland, and were on 
their route to join the regiment in Flanders. But, alas '.said the 
corporal, the lieutenant's last day's march is over. Then what 
is to become of his poor boy ? cried my uncle Toby. 

Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby to the cor- 
poral, as he was putting him to bed, and I will tell thee in what, 
Trim. In the first place, when thou mad'st an offer of my ser- 
vices to Le Fever, as sickness and travelling are both expensive, 
and thou knewest he was but a poor lieutenant, with a son to 
subsist, as well as himself, out of his pay, that thou didst not 
make an offer to him of my purse ; because, had he stood in 
need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as my- 
self. Your honour knows, said the corporal, I had no orders. 
True, quoth my uncle Toby ; thou didst very right, Trim, as a 
soldier, but certainly very wrong as a man. 

In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same ex- 
cuse, continued my uncle Toby, when thou ofTeredst him what- 
ever was in my house, that thou shouldest have offered him my 
house, too. A sick brother officer should have the best quarters, 
Trim ; and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to 
him ; thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim ; and what with 
thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's-, and mine 
together, we might recruit him again at once, and set him upon 
his legs. 

In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smiling, 
he might march. He will never march, an't please your honour, 
in this world, said the corporal. He will march, said my uncle 
Toby, rising up from the side of the bed, with one shoe off. 



164 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

A n't please your honour, said the corporal, he will never march, 
but to his grave. He shall march, cried my uncle Toby, march- 
ing the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an 
inch — he shall march to his regiment. He cannot stand it, said 
the corporal. He shall be supported, said my uncle Toby. 
He'll drop at last, said the corporal, and what will become of his 
boy ? He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly. A well 
o'day, do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point, 

the poor soul will die. He shall not die, by H n, cried my 

uncle Toby. 

— The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to Heaven's chancery 
with the oath, blushed as he gave it in ; and the Recording 
Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and 
blotted it out forever. 

— My uncle. Toby went to his bureau, put his purse into his 
pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morn- 
ing for a physician, he went to bed and fell asleep. 

The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the 
village but Le Fever's and his afflicted son's ; the hand of death 
pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at 
the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had 
got up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's 
room, and without preface or apology, sat himself down upon 
the chair by the bed-side, and, independently of all modes and 
customs, opened the curtain, in the manner an old friend and 
brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did — 
how he had rested in the night — what was his complaint — 
where was his pain — and what he could do to help him ? And 
without giving him time to answer any one of these inquiries, 
went on and told him of the little plan which he had been con- 
certing with the corporal the night before for him. 

You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle Toby, to 
my house — and we '11 send for a doctor to see what's the matter 
— and we '11 have an apothecary — and the corporal shall be your 
nurse — and I '11 be your servant, Le Fever. 

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby — not the effect of 
familiarity, but the cause of it — which let you at once into his 
soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature ; to this there 
was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, 
which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take 
shelter under him ; so that before my uncle Toby had half 
finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son 
insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of 
the breast of his Coat, and was pulling it towards him. The 
blood and spirit of Le Fever, which were waxing cold and slow 
within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, 
rallied back — the film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked 



SECT. VI.] READING. 165 

up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face — then cast a look upon 
his boy. 

Nature instantly ebbed again — the film returned to its place — 
the pulse fluttered, stopped — went on — throbbed — stopped again 
— moved — stopped — shall I go on ? No. 



SECTION VI. 
I. — The Shepherd and the Philosopher, 
Remote from cities lived a swain, 



Unvex'd with all the cares of gain. 
His head was silver'd o'er with age, 
And long experience made him sage ; 
In summer's heat and winter's cold, 
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold ; 
His hours in cheerful labour flew, 
Nor envy nor ambition knew ; 
His wisdom and his honest fame 
Through all the country raised his name. 

A deep philosopher, (whose rules 
Of moral life were drawn from schools,) 
The shepherd's homely cottage sought ; 
And thus explored his reach of thought. 
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil 
O'er books consumed the midnight oil ? 
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd 
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd ? 
Hath Socrates thy soul refined ? 
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind ? 
Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown, 
By various fates, on realms unknown : 
Hast thou through many cities stray'd, 
Their customs, laws, and manners, weigh'd ? 

The shepherd modestly replied, 
I ne'er the paths of learning tried ; 
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts, 
To read mankind, their laws and arts ; 
For man is practised in disguise ; 
He cheats the most discerning eyes ; 
Who- by that search shall wiser grow, 
While we ourselves can never know : 
The little knowledge I have gain'd, 
Was all from simple nature drain'd ; 



166 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

Hence my life's maxims took their rise, 
Hence grew my settled hate to vice. 

The daily labours of the bee 
Awake my soul to industry. 
Who can observe the careful ant, 
And not provide for future want ? 
My dog (the truest of his kind) 
With gratitude inflames my mind ; 
I mark his true, his faithful way, 
And in my service copy Tray. 
In constancy and nuptial love, 
I learn my duty from the dove. 
The hen, who from the chilly air, 
With pious wing protects her care, 
And every fowl that flies at large, 
Instructs me in a parent's charge. 

From nature, too, I take my rule 
To shun contempt and ridicule. 
I never with important air, 
In conversation overbear : 
Can grave and formal pass for wise, 
When men the solemn owl despise ? 
My tongue within my lips I rein, 
For who talks much must talk in vain : 
We from the worldly torrent fly : 
Who listens to the chattering pie ? 
Nor would I with felonious flight, 
By stealth invade my neighbour's right : 
Rapacious animals we hate ; 
Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate. 
Do not we just abhorrence find 
Against the toad and serpent kind ? 
But envy, calumny, and spite, 
Bear stronger venom in their bite : 
Thus every object of creation 
Can furnish hints for contemplation ; 
And from the most minute and mean, 
A virtuous mind can morals glean. 

Thy fame is just, the sage replies : 
Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. 
Pride often guides the author's pen ; 
Books as affected are as men : 
But he who studies nature's laws, 
From certain truth his maxims draws ; 
And those, without our schools, suffice 
To make men moral, good, and wise. 



SECT. VI.] READING. 167 



II. — Ode to Lev en Water. 

On Leven's banks while free to rove, 
And tune the rural pipe to love, 
I envied not the happiest swain 
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. 
Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 
No torrents stain thy limpid source ; 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood, 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; 
The springing trout, in speckled pride ; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
The ruthless pike, intent on war ; 
The silver eel, and mottled par. 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters make, 
By bowers of birch and groves of pine, 
And hedges flowered with eglantine. 
Still on thy banks so gaily green, 
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen ; 
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail ; 
And shepherds, piping in the dale ; 
And ancient faith, that knows no guile ; 
And industry, embrowned with toil; 
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, 
The blessings they enjoy to guard. 



III. — Ode from the Nineteenth Psalm. 

The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 
Th' unwearied sun from day to day 
Does his Creator's power display ; 
And publishes to ev'ry land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, 
And, nightly, to the list'ning earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth : 



168 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amid these radiant orbs be found ? 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
Forever singing, as they shine, 
" The hand that made us is divine." 



IV. — Rural Charms. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain; 
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid, 
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd : 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease ! 
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please ! 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
How often have I paus'd on every charm ! 
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church, that topp'd the neighbouring hill ; 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
For talking age and whispering lovers made ; 
How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
When toil remitting, lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labour free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ! 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey'd : 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And slights of arts and feats of strength went round : 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired: 
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown, 
By holding out to tire each other down ; 
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter'd round the place : 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 



SECT. VI.] READING. 169 

There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 

The mingling notes came soften'd from below. 

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung ; 

The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; 

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ; 

The playful children just let loose from school ; 

The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whisp'ring wind ; 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 

These all, in soft confusion, sought the shade, 

And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 

I 

! V. — The Painter who pleased Nobody and Every Body. 

Lest men suspect your tale untrue, 
Keep probability in view. 
The trav'ler leaping o'er those bounds, 
The credit of his book confounds ; 
Who with his tongue hath armies routed, 
Makes e'en his real courage doubted. 
But flatt'ry never seems absurd; 
The flatter'd always take your word ; 
Impossibilities seem just ; 
They take the strongest praise on trust ; 
Hyperboles, though e'er so great, 
Will still come short of self-conceit. 

So very like a painter drew, 
That ev'ry eye the picture knew ; 
He hit complexion, feature, air, 
So just, that life itself was there ; 
No flatt'ry with his colours laid, 
To bloom restored the faded maid ; 
He gave each muscle all its strength ; 
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length, 
His honest pencil touch'd with truth, 
And mark'd the date of age and youth. 
He lost his friends ; his practice fail'd ; 
Truth should not always be reveal'd ; 
In dusty piles his pictures lay, 
For no one sent the second pay. 

Two bustoes, fraught with ev'ry grace, 
A Venus' and Apollo's face, 
He placed in view: resolved to please, 
Whoever sat, he drew from these ; 
From these corrected ev'ry feature, 
And spirited each awkward creature. 

All things were set ; the hour was come, 
His palette ready o'er his thumb : 
15 



170 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

My Lord appear'd, and seated right, 

In proper attitude and light. 

The painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece ; 

Then dipp'd his pencil, talk'd of Greece, 

Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air, 

" Those eyes, my Lord, the spirit there, 

Might well a Raphael's hand require, 

To give them all their native fire ; 

The features, fraught with sense and wit, 

You '11 grant, are very hard to hit : 

But yet with patience you shall view 

As much as paint or art can do : 

Observe the work." — My Lord replied, 

" Till now I thought my mouth was wide : 

Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; 

Dear sir, for me 'tis far too young." 

" O pardon me," the artist cried, 

" In this, we painters must decide. 

The piece e'en common eyes must strike; 

I warrant it extremely like." 

My Lord examined it anew, 

No looking-glass seem'd half so true. 

A lady came. With borrow'd grace, 
He from his Venus form'd her face. 
Her lover praised the painter's art, 
So like the picture in his heart ! 
To ev'ry age some charms he lent ; 
E'en beauties were almost content. 
Through all the town his art they praised, 
His custom grew, his price was raised. 
Had he the real likeness shown, 
Would any man the picture own ? 
But when thus happily he wrought, 
Each found the likeness in his thought. 

VI. — Diversity in the Human Character. 

Virtuous and vicious every man must be, 
Few in th' extreme, but all in th' degree : 
The rogue and fool by fits are fair and wise, 
And e'en the best, by fits what they despise. 
'Tis but by part we follow good or ill, 
For, Vice or Virtue, self directs it still; 
Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal ; 
But Heaven's great view is one, and that the whole ; 
That counterworks each folly and caprice ; 
That disappoints th' effect of ev'ry vice ; 



SECT. VI.] READING. 171 

That happy frailties to all ranks applied — 
Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, 
Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, 
To kings presumption, and to crowds belief. 
That Virtue's end from vanity can raise, 
Which seeks no int'rest, no reward but praise ; 
And build on wants, and on defects of mind, 
The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind. 

Heaven, forming each on other to depend, 
A master, or a servant, or a friend, 
Bids each on other for assistance call, 
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all. 
Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally 
The common int'rest, or endear the tie. 
To those we owe true friendship, love sincere, 
Each homefelt joy that life inherits here ; 
Yet from the same, we learn in its decline, 
Those joys, those loves, those int'rests to resign. 
Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, 
To welcome death, and calmly pass away. 

Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, 
Not one would change his neighbour with himself. 
The learn'd is happy, nature to explore, 
The fool is happy that he knows no more ; 
The rich is happy in the plenty given, 
The poor contents him with the care of heaven : 
See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, 
The sot a hero, lunatic a king ; 
The starving chymist in his golden views 
Supremely blest, the poet in his muse. 

See some strange comfort ev'ry state attend, 
And pride, bestow'd on all, a common friend ; 
See some fit passion ev'ry age supply, 
Hope travels through, nor quits us when w T e die. 

Behold the child, by nature's kindly law, 
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw ; 
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight ; 
A little louder, but as empty quite ; 
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, 
And cards and counters are the toys of age ; 
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before ; 
Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. 

Meanwhile opinion gilds, with varying rays, 
Those painted clouds that beautify our days ; 
Each want of happiness by hope supplied, 
And each vacuity of sense by pride. 
These build as fast as knowledge can destroy : 



172 LESSONS IN [PART 

In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy : 

One prospect lost, another still we gain, 

And not a vanity is given in vain : 

E'en mean self-love becomes, by force divine, 

The scale to measure others' wants by thine. 

See ! and confess, one comfort still must rise ; 

'Tis this : Though man's a fool, yet God is wise. 

VII. — The Toilet. . 

And now unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, 
With head uncover'd, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears ; 
To that she bends, to that her eye she rears, 
Th' inferior priestess, at the altar's side, 
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here 
The various off' rings of the world appear; 
From each she nicely culls, with curious toil, 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here, and elephant unite, 
Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white ; 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms, 
The fair, each moment, rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face. 

VIII.— The Hermit. 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
From youth to age, a rev'rend hermit grew. 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; 
Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days ; 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose : 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; 
Thus sprung some doubt of Providence's sway. 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 



SECT. VI.] READING. 173 

So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest, 
Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast, 
Down bend the banks ; the trees, depending grow; 
And skies, beneath, with answ'ring colours glow ; 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry side ; 
And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun, 
Banks, seas, and skies, in thick disorder run. 

To clear this doubt ; to know the world by sight; 
To find if books or swains report it right ; 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew.) 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim staff he bore, 
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ; 
Then, with the sun a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. 
Then, near approaching, Father, hail ! he cried ; 
And, hail ! my son, the rev'rend sire replied ; 
Words follow'd words ; from question answer flow'd ; 
And talk of various kind deceived the road ; 
Till, each with other pleased, and loth to part, 
While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound ; 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 
Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature, in silence, bid the world repose ; 
When, near the road, a stately palace rose ; 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, 
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides with grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home ; 
Yet still, the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive ; the liv'ry servants wait, 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate: 
A table groans with costly piles of food ; 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, and" silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis morn ; and at the dawn of day, 

15* 



174 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
And shake the neighb'ring wood, to banish sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call ; 
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, 
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. 
Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go, 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of wo. 
His cup was vanish'd ; for, in secret guise, 
The younger guest purloined the glitt'ring prize. 

As one who sees a serpent in his way, 
Glist'ning and basking in the summer jay, 
Disorder' d stops, to shun the danger near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ; 
So seem'd the sire, when, far upon the road, 
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
He stopt with silence, walk'd with trembling heart ; 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask, to part : 
Murm'ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard 
That gen'rous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, 
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds : 
A sound in air presaged approaching rain ; 
And beasts to covert, scud across the plain. 
Warn'd by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat, 
To seek for shelter in a neighb'ring seat : 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground ; 
And strong and large, and unimproved around : 
Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe, 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning, mix'd with showers, began ; 
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. 
Here long they knock ; but knock or call in vain ; 
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. 
At length, some pity warm'd the master's breast : 
('Twas then his threshold first received a guest;) 
Slow creaking turns the door, with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes in the shiv'ring pair. 
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, 
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls; 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine, 
(Each hardly granted) served them both to dine ; 
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 



SECT. VI.] READING. 175 

With still remark, the pond'ring hermit view'd, 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude : 
And why should such (within himself he cried) 
Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside ? 
But, what new marks of wonder soon took place 
In ev'ry settling feature of his face, 
When, from his vest, the young companion bore 
That cup the gen'rous landlord own'd before, 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl, 
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 
But, now the clouds in airy tumults fly : 
The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smiling leaves display, 
And, glitt'ring as they tremble, cheer the day : 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought 
With all the travail of uncertain thought. 
His partner's acts without their cause appear ; 
'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here. 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky 
Again the wand'rers want a place to lie ; 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh : 
The soil improved around ; the mansion neat ; 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great ; 
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind : 
Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind. 
Hither the walkers turn, with weary feet ; 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet ; 
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies : — 

" Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
To him who gives us all, I yield a part : 
From him you come, from him accept it here — 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." 
He spoke : and bade the welcome tables spread ; 
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed : 
When the grave household round his hall repair, 
Warn'd by the bell, and close the hour with prayer. 

At length the world, renew'd by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the closed cradle, where an infant slept, 
And writh'd his neck; the landlord's little pride — 
O, strange return ! — grew black, and gasp'd, and died. 



'} 



176 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 
How look'd our hermit when the deed was done ! 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 

Confused and struck with silence at the deed, 
He flies : but trembling, fails to fly with speed. 
His steps the youth pursues. The country lay 
Perplex'd with roads ; a servant showed the way. 
A river cross'd the path. The passage o'er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oak an open bridge supplied, 
And the deep waves beneath the bending, glide. 
The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin, 
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in : 
Plunging he falls ; and rising, lifts his head ; 
Then splashing, turns, and sinks among the dead. 

Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes : 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 

Detested wretch ! — But scarce his speech began, 

When the strange partner seemed no longer man ; 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet ; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; 
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; 
And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, 
Wide at his back, their gradual plumes display. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud, at first, the pilgrim's passion grew, 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends ; 
And, in a calm, his settled temper ends. 
But silence here, the beauteous angel broke : 
The voice of music ravished as he spoke. 

Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne, 
These charms success in our bright region find, 
And force an angel down to calm thy mind. 
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky ; 
Nay, cease to kneel, thy fellow servant I. 

Then know the truth of government divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 

The Maker justly claims that world he made ; 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty, through all, depends 
On using second means to work his ends. 



SECT. VI.] READING. 177 

'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
The Power exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
. And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

What strange events can strike with more surprise, 
Than those which lately struck thy wond'ring eyes? 
Yet taught by these, confess th' Almighty just, 
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 

The great, vain man, who fared on costly food ; 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine ; 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er moved in pity to the wand'ring poor ; 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head : 
In the kind warmth, the metal learns to glow, 
And loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
But now, the child half weaned his heart from God 
(Child of his age) ; for him he lived in pain, 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all, but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, 
And 't was my ministry to deal the blow. 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 

But how had ail his fortune felt a wreck, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ? 
This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, 
And what a fund of charity would fail ? 

Thus heaven instructs thy mind. This trial o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more. 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, 
The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha, when to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky : 
The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too. 

M 



178 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

The bending hermit here a prayer begun : 
" Lord, as in Heaven, on earth thy will be done." 
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
And pass'd a life of piety and peace. 

IX. — On the Death of Mrs. Mason. 

Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear, 
Take that best gift, which Heaven so lately gave ; 

To Bristol's fount I bore, with trembling care, 
Her faded form. She bow'd to taste the wave — 

And died. Does youth, does beauty read the line ? 

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ! 
Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine ; 

E'en from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. 

Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee ; 

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move : 
And if as fair, from vanity as free, 

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love ; 

Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die, 

('Twas e'en to thee) yet the dread path once trod, 

Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, 

And bids the " pure in heart behold their God." 

X. — Extract from the Temple of Fame. 

Around these wonders as I cast a look, 
The trumpet sounded and the temple shook; 
And all the nations, summon'd at the call, 
From diff'rent quarters fill the spacious hall. 
Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard; 
In various garbs promiscuous throngs appear'd : 
Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend, 
And all degrees before the goddess bend ; 
The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage, 
And boasting youth, and narrative old age. 

First, at the shrine, the learned world appear, 
And to the goddess thus prefer their prayer : 
" Long have we sought t' instruct and please mankind, 
With studies pale, and midnight vigils blind : 
But thank'd by few, rewarded yet by none, 
We here appeal to thy superior throne ; 
On wit and learning the just prize bestow, 
For fame is all we must expect below." 
The goddess heard, and bid the muses raise 
The golden trumpet of eternal praise. 



SECT. VI.] READING. 179 

From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound, 
And fill the circuit of the world around: 
Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud, 
The notes at first were rather sweet than loud : 
By just degrees they ev'ry moment rise, 
Spread round the earth, and gain upon the skies. 

Next these, the good and just, an awful train, 
Thus on their knees address the sacred fane : — 
"Since living virtue is with envy cursed, 
And the best men are treated as the worst, 
Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth, 
And give each deed th' exact intrinsic worth." 
"Not with bare justice shall your acts be crown'd, 
(Said Fame) but high above desert renown'd, 
Let fuller notes th' applauding world amaze, 
And the loud clarion labour in your praise." 

A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore, 
And proud defiance in their looks they bore. 
" For thee (they cried) amidst alarms and strife, 
We sail'd in tempests down the stream of life : 
For thee, whole nations fill'd with fire and blood, 
And swam to empire through the purple flood. 
Those ills we dared thy inspiration own ; 
What virtues seem'd was done for thee alone." 
" Ambitious fools ! (the queen replied and frown'd) 
Be all your deeds in dark oblivion drown'd ; 
There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone, 
Your statues moulder'd, and your names unknown." 
A sudden cloud straight snatch'd them from my sight, 
And each majestic phantom sunk in night. 

Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen ; 
Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien : 
" Great idol of mankind, we never claim 
The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame ; 
But, safe in deserts from th' applause of men, 
Would die unheard of as we lived unseen. 
'T is all we beg thee, to conceal from sight 
Those acts of goodness which themselves requite. 
O let us still the sacred joy partake, 
To follow virtue, e'en for virtue's sake." 
" And live there men who slight immortal fame ? 
Who, then, with incense shall adore our name? 
But, mortals know, 't is still our greatest pride, 
To blaze those virtues which the good would hide. 
Rise, muses, rise ! add all your tuneful breath, 
These must not sleep in darkness and in death." 



180 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

She said. In air the trembling music floats, 
And on the winds triumphant swell the notes ; 
So soft, though high ; so loud, and yet so clear, 
E'en list'ning angels lean from heaven to hear ; 
To farthest shores the ambrosial spirit flies, 
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies. 

XL — Panegyric on Great Britain. 

Heavens ! what a goodly prospect spreads around, 
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, 
And glitt'ring towns, and gilded streams, till all 
The stretching landscape into smoke decays ! 
Happy Britannia ! where the Queen of Arts, 
Inspiring vigour, Liberty, abroad 
Walks, unconfined, even to thy farthest cots, 
And scatters plenty with unsparing hand. 

Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime ; 
Thy streams unfailing in the summer's draught, 
Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks ; thy valleys float 
With golden waves ; and on thy mountains, flocks 
Bleat numberless ; while roving round their sides, 
Bellow the black'ning herds in lusty droves. 
Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unequall'd 
Against the mower's scythe. On every hand 
Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth, 
And property assures it to the swain, 
Pleased and unwearied in his guarded toil. 

Full are thy cities with the sons of art — 
And trade and joy, in every busy street, 
Mingling are heard ! even drudgery himself, 
As at the car he sweats, or, dusty, hews 
The palace stone, looks gay. The crowded ports, 
Where rising masts an endless prospect yield, 
With labour burn, and echo to the shouts 
Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves 
His last adieu, and loosening every sheet, 
Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind. 
Bold, firm, and graceful are thy gen'rous youth, 
By hardship sinew'd, and by danger fired, 
Scattering the nations where they go; and first 
Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas. 
Mild are thy glories too, as o'er the plains 
Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside 
In genius and substantial learning high ; 
For every virtue, every worth renown'd ! 
Sincere, plain-hearted, hospitable, kind ; 



SECT. VI.] READING. 181 

Yet, like the mutt' ring thunder, when provoked, 
The dread of tyrants, and the sole resource 
Of those that under grim oppression groan. 

Thy sons of Glory many ! Alfred thine, 
In whom the splendour of heroic war, 
And more heroic peace, when govern'd well, 
Combine ! whose hallow'd name the virtues saint, 
And his own Muses love ; the best of kings ! 
With him thy Edwards and thy Henrys shine, 
Names dear to Fame ; the first who deep impress'd 
On haughty Gaul the terror of thy arms, 
That awes her genius still. In statesmen thou, 
And patriots, fertile. Thine a steady More, 
Who, with a generous, though mistaken zeal, 
Withstood a brutal tyrant's useful rage ; 
Like Cato firm, like Aristides just, 
Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poor, 
A dauntless soul erect, who smiled on death. 
A Hampden too is thine, illustrious land ! 
Wise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul; 
Who stemm'd the torrent of a downward age, 
To slavery prone, and bade thee rise again, 
In all thy native pomp of freedom bold. 
Thine is a Bacon ; hapless in his choice ; 
Unfit to stand the civil storm of state, 
And through the smooth barbarity of courts, 
With firm but pliant virtue, forward still 
To urge his course ; him for the studious shade 
Kind nature form'd, deep, comprehensive, clear, 
Exact and elegant ; in one rich soul, 
Plato, the Stagyrite, and Tully join'd. 
Let Newton, pure intelligence, whom God 
To mortals lent to trace his boundless works 
From laws sublimely simple, speak thy fame 
In all philosophy. For lofty sense, 
Creative fancy and inspection keen, 
Through the deep windings of the human heart 
Is not wild Shakspeare thine and nature's boast? 
Is not each great, each amiable Muse 
Of classic ages in thy Milton met ? 
A genius universal as his theme: 
Astonishing as chaos, as the bloom 
Of blowing Eden fair, as heaven sublime. 

May my song soften as thy daughters I, 
Britannia, hail ! for beauty is their own, 
The feeling heart, simplicity of life, 
And elegance, and taste ; the faultless form, 

16 



182 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

Shaped by the hand of harmony ; the cheek, 
"Where the live crimson, through the native white, 
Soft shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom, 
And every nameless grace ; the parted lip, 
Like the red rose-bud moist with morning dew, 
Breathing delight ; and, under flowing jet, 
Or sunny ringlets, or of circling brown, 
The necks light-shaded, and the swelling breast ; 
The look resistless, piercing to the soul, 
And by the soul informed, when drest in love 
She sits high smiling in the conscious eye. 

Island of bliss ! amid the subject seas, 
That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up, 
At once the wonder, terror, and delight 
Of distant nations, whose remotest shores 
Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm ; 
Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults 
Baffling, as thy hoar cliffs the loud sea wave. 

O thou ! by whose Almighty nod the scale 
Of empire rises, or alternate falls, 
Send forth thy saving virtues round the land, 
In bright patrol ; white Peace, and social Love ; 
The tender-looking Charity, intent 
On gentle deeds, and shedding tears through smiles; 
Undaunted Truth and Dignity of mind ; 
Courage composed and keen — sound Temperance, 
Healthful in heart and look — clear Chastity, 
With blushes reddening as she moves along, 
Disordered at the deep regard she draws — 
Rough Industry — Activity untired, 
With copious life informed, and all awake — 
While in the radiant front superior shines 
That first paternal virtue, Public Zeal — 
Who throws o'er all an equal wide survey, 
And, ever musing on the common weal, 
Still labours glorious with some great design. 

XII. — Hymn to the Deity on the Seasons of the Year. 

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide flush the fields — the softening air is balm — 
Echo the mountains round — the forests smile ; 
And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the summer months, 



SECT. VI.] READING. 183 

With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year ; 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
And oft, at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
By brooks and groves and hollow whispering gales, 
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconflned, 
And spreads a common feast for all that live. 
In winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around thee thrown — tempest o'er tempest rolled; 
Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing 
Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
Deep felt, in.these appear ! a simple train — 
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combined — 
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade — 
And all so forming a harmonious w T hole — 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But, wand'ring oft with brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres — 
Works in the secret deep — shoots, streaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring — 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day : 
Feeds every creature — ■ hurls the tempest forth : 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
In adoration join — and, ardent, raise 
One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, w T hose Spirit in your freshness breathes: 
O talk of him in solitary glooms ! 
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, w 7 hose bolder note is heard afar, 
Who shake th' astonished world, lift high to heaven 
Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills — 
And let me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound — 
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale — and thou majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself — 
Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice 
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 



184 LESSONS IN [PART 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 

In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, 

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 

Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to him : 

Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 

As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 

Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 

Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 

Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 

Great source of day ! best image here below 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 

From world to world, the vital ocean round, 

On nature write with every beam his praise. 

Ye thunders roll ; be hushed the prostrate world, 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks 

Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 

Ye valleys raise ; for the great Shepherd reigns, 

And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 

Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 

Burst from the groves : and when the restless day, 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 

Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela charm 

The list'ning shades, and teach the night his praise. 

Yet chief, for whom the whole creation smiles ; 

At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all : 

Crown the great hymn ! In swarming cities vast, 

Assembled men, to the deep organ join 

The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; 

And as each mingling flame increases each, 

In one united ardour rise to heaven. 

Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 

And find a fane in every sacred grove — 

There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 

Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. 

For me, when I forget the darling theme, 

Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 

Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams; 

Or Winter rises in the blackening east ; 

Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, 

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the on en earth, to distant barb'rous climes, 
Rivers unknown to son?; where first the sun 



SECT. VII.] READING. 185 

Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 

Flames on the Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me ; 

Since God is ever present, ever felt, 

In the void waste as in the city full ; 

And where He vital spreads, there must be joy. 

When even at last the solemn hour shall come, 

And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 

I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, 

Will rising wonders sing — I cannot go 

Where Universal Love smiles not around. 

Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns : 

From seeming evil still adducing good, 

And better thence again, and better still, 

In infinite progression — but I lose 

Myself in Him, in Light Ineffable ! 

Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. 



SECTION VII. 
I. — The Chameleon. 

Oft has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark, 
Returning from his finish'd tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before : 
Whatever word you chance to drop, 
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop — 
" Sir, if my judgment you '11 allow — 
I've seen — and sure I ought to know." 
So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast, 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, 
And on their way, in friendly chat, 
Now talk'd of this, and then of that ; 
Discoursed a while 'mongst other matter 
Of the Chameleon's form and nature. 
" A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never lived beneath the sun ! 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, 
Its foot with triple claws disjoin'd, 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 
Who ever saw so fine a blue I" 
16* 



186 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

" Hold there," the other quick replies, 
" 'T is green : I saw it with these eyes, 
As late with open mouth it lay, 
And warm'd it in the sunny ray : 
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, 
And saw it eat the air for food." 

" I 've seen it, Sir, as well as you, 
And must again affirm it blue. 
At leisure I the beast survey'd, 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

" 'T is green ! 't is green, Sir, 1 assure ye" — 
" Green !" cries the other, in a fury — 
" Why, Sir, d' ye think I 've lost my eyes ?" 
" 'T were no great loss," the friend replies ; 
" For if they always serve you thus, 
You'll find them but of little use." 

So high at last the contest rose, 
From words they almost came to blows : 
When luckily came by a third ; 
To him the question they referred, 
And begg'd he 'd tell them, if he knew 
Whether the thing was green or blue. 

" Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother, 
The creature's — neither one nor t' other. 
I caught the animal last night, 
And view'd it o'er by candle light ; 
I mark'd it well — 'twas black as jet — 
You stare — but, sirs, I 've got it yet, 
And can produce it." " Pray, sir, do ; 
I '11 lay my life the thing is blue." 
"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen 
The reptile, you '11 pronounce it green." 
" Well, then, at once to end the doubt," 
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; 
And when before your eyes I 've set him, 
If you don't find him black, I '11 eat him." 
He said — then full before their sight 
Produced the beast — and, lo ! — 'twas white. 

II. — On the Order of Nature. 

See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may grow ! 
Around, how wide ! How deep extend below ! 
Vast chain of being ! which from God began : 
Nature's ethereal, human ; angel, man ; 



SECT. VII.] READING. 187 

Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, 
No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee, 
From thee to nothing. On superior powers 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creation leave a void, 
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd. 
From nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 

What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head ? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repined 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this general frame ; 
Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains 
The great directing Mind of All ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 

Cease, then, nor Order, imperfection name : 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. 
Submit. In this or any other sphere, 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 
Safe in the hand of one disposing power, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All Nature is but Art unknown to thee ; 
All Chance, Direction which thou canst not see ; 
All Discord, Harmony not understood ; 
All partial Evil, universal Good ; 
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 
One truth is clear, — " Whatever is, is right." 



188 LESSONS IN [PART 



III. — Description of a Country Alehouse. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye ; 
Low lies that house, where nutbrown draughts inspired ; 
Where graybeard mirth, and smiling toil, retired: 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops, to trace 
The parlour splendors of that festive place; 
The white-wash'd wall ; the nicely sanded floor ; 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel, gay ; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks ; nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care. 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear. 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 
Shall kiss the cup, to pass it to the rest. 



IV. — Character of a Country Schoolmaster. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view : 
I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 



SECT. VII.] READING. 189 

Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes — for many a joke had he : 
Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. 
Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher, too : 
Lands he could measure ; terms and tides presage ; 
And e'en the story ran that he could guage. 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill ; 
For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length, and thundering sound, 
Amazed the gazing rustics, ranged around ; 
And still they gazed ; and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 



V. — Story of Palemon and Lavinia. 

The lovely young Lavinia once had friends, 
And fortune smiled deceitful on her birth. 
For, in her helpless years, deprived of all, 
Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven, 
She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old, 
And poor, lived in a cottage far retired 
Among the windings of a woody vale ; 
By solitude and deep surrounding shades, 
But more by bashful modesty conceal'd. 
Together, thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn, 
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet 
From giddy passion and low-minded pride; 
Almost on nature's common bounty fed ; 
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, 
Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. 

Her form was fresher than the morning rose, 
When the dew wets its leaves ; unstain'd and pure 
As is the lily, or the mountain snow. 
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, 
Still on the ground dejected, darting all 
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers ; 
Or, when the mournful tale her mother told, 
Or what her faithless fortune promised once, 
Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star 
Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace 
Sat fair proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, 
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, 



190 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness 
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
But is, when unadom'd, adorn'd the most. 
Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, 
Recluse amid the close embow'ring woods. 

As in the hollow breast of Apennine, 
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, 
A myrtle rises, far from human eye, 
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild : 
So flourish'd, blooming, and unseen by all, 
The sweet Lavinia: till at length compelled, 
By strong necessity's supreme command. 
With smiling patience in her looks, she went 
To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of swains 
Palemon was ; the generous, and the rich : 
Who led the rural life, in all its joy 
And elegance, such as Arcadian song 
Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times ; 
When tyrant Custom had not shackled man, 
But free to follow nature, was the mode. 
He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes 
Amusing, chanced beside his reaper train 
To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye, 
Unconscious of her power, and turning quick 
With unaffected blushes from his gaze : 
He saw her charming ; but he saw not half 
The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd. 
That very moment, love and chaste desire 
Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown ; 
For still the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh, 
(Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn) 
Should his heart own a gleaner in the field ; 
And thus, in secret, to his soul he sigh'd, 

" What pity, that so delicate a form, 
By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense, 
And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, 
Should be devoted to the rude embrace 
Of some indecent clown ! She looks, methinks, 
Of old Acasto's line : and to my mind 
Recalls that patron of my happy life, 
From whom my liberal fortune took its rise ; 
Now to the dust gone down, his houses, lands, 
And once fair spreading family, dissolved. 
'Tis said, that, in some lone, obscure retreat, 
Urged by remembrance, sad and decent pride, 
Far from those scenes which knew their better days, 
His aged widow and his daughter live, 



SECT. VII.] READING. 191 

Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. 
Romantic wish ! would this the daughter were !" 

When strict inquiring, from herself he found 
She was the same, the daughter of his friend, 
Of Bountiful Acasto — who can speak 
The mingled passions that surprised his heart, 
And through his nerves in shivering transport ran ! 
Then blazed his smother'd flame, avow'd and bold ! 
And as he vievv'd her, ardent o'er and o'er, 
Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once. 
Confused and frighten'd at his sudden tears, 
Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom ; 
As thus Palemon, passionate and just, 
Pour'd out the pious rapture of his soul. 

"And art thou, then, Acasto's dear remains ? 
She whom my restless gratitude has sought 
So long in vain ? — Oh yes ! the very same, 
The soften'd image of my noble friend ; 
Alive, his every feature, every look, 
More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than Spring ! 
Thou sole surviving blossom from the root 
That nourish'd up my fortune ! say, ah ! where, 
In what sequester'd desert, hast thou drawn 
The kindest aspect of delighted heaven ! 
Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair, 
Though poverty's cold wind and rushing rain 
Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years. 
Oh, let me now into a richer soil 
Transplant thee safe, where vernal suns and showers 
Diffuse their warmest, largest influence ; 
And of my garden be the pride and joy. 
Ill it befits thee, oh ! it ill befits 
Acasto's daughter, his whose open stores, 
Though vast, were little to his ampler heart, 
The father of a country, thus to pick 
The very refuse of those harvest-fields, 
Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. 
Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand, 
But ill applied to such a rugged task: 
The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine ; 
If to the various blessings which thy house 
Has on me lavish'd, thou wilt add that bliss, 
That dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee !" 

Here ceased the youth ; yet still his speaking eye 
Express'd the sacred triumph of his soul, 
With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love, 
Above the vulgar joy divinely raised. 



192 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm 

Of goodness irresistible, and all 

In sweet disorder lost — she blush'd consent. 

The news immediate to her mother brought, 

While, pierced with anxious thought, she pined away 

The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate ; 

Amazed, and scarce believing what she heard, 

Joy seized her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam 

Of setting life shone on her evening hours: 

Not less enraptured than the happy pair, 

Who nourish'd long in tender bliss, and rear'd 

A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves, 

And good, the grace of all the country round. 

VI. — Celadon and Amelia. 
Young Celadon 



And his Amelia were a matchless pair, 
With equal virtue form'd, and equal grace ; 
The same distinguished by their sex alone : 
Hers, the mild lustre of the blooming morn ! 
And his, the radiance of the rising day. 

They loved. But such their guiltless passion was, 
As in the dawn of time, inform'd the heart 
Of innocence and undissembling truth. 
'Twas friendship, heighten'd by the mutual wish ; 
Th' enchanting hope, and sympathetic glow, 
Beam'd from the mutual eye. Devoting all 
To love, each was to each a dearer self; 
Supremely happy in th' awaken'd power 
Of giving joy. Alone, amid the shades, 
Still in harmonious intercourse, they lived 
The rural day, and talk'd the flowing heart ; 
Or sigh'd and Jook'd — unutterable things. 

So pass'd their life, a clear united stream, 
By care unruffled, till, in evil hour, 
The tempest caught them on the tender walk, 
Heedless how far and where its mazes stray'd; 
While, with each other bless'd, creative love 
Still bade eternal Eden smile around. 
Presaging. instant fate, her bosom heaved 
Unwonted sighs ; and stealing oft a look 
Towards the big gloom, on Celadon her eye 
Fell tearful, wetting her disorder'd cheek. 
In vain assuring love and confidence 
In heaven repress'd her fear ; it grew, and shook 
Her frame near dissolution. He perceived 



SECT. VII.] READING. 193 

Th' unequal conflict; and, as angels look 
On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed, 
With love illumined high. " Fear not," he said, 
" Sweet innocence ! thou stranger to offence 
And inward storm ! He who yon skies involves 
In frowns of darkness, ever smiles on thee, 
With kind regard. O'er thee the secret shaft, 
That wastes at midnight, or th' undreaded hour 
Of noon, flies harmless; and that very voice 
Which thunders terror through the guilty heart, 
With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thine. 
'Tis safety to be near thee, sure, and thus 
To clasp perfection !" From his void embrace, 
(Mysterious heaven !) that moment to the ground, 
A blacken'd corse was struck the beauteous maid. 
But who can paint the lover as he stood, 
Pierced by severe amazement, hating life, 
Speechless, and flx'd in all the death of wo. 



VII. — Description of Mab, Queen of the Fairies, 

She is the fancy's midwife ; and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate stone, 
On the forefinger of an Alderman; 
Drawn by a team of little atomies, 
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep ; 
Her wagon-spokes, made of long spinners' legs ; 
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 
The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; 
The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams ; 
Her whip, of crickets' bone ; the lash of film ; 
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat ; 
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, 
Made by the joiner Squirrel, or old Grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. 

And in this state she gallops, night by night, 
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ; 
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream of fees; 
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ; 
And sometimes comes she with the tithe pig's tail, 
Tickling the parson as he lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of another benefice. 
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck; 
And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscades, Spanish blades; 
Of healths five fathoms deep; and then, anon, 

17 N 



194 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

Drums in his ears : at which he starts and wakes ; 
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 
And sleeps again. 

VIII. — On the Existence of a Deity. 

Retire — the world shut out — thy thoughts call home — 
Imagination's airy wing repress. 
Lock up thy senses. Let no passion stir. 
Wake all to reason. Let her reign alone. 
Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth 
Of nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire, 
What am I ? and from whence ? I nothing know 
But that I am ; and since I am, conclude 
Something eternal. Had there e'er been nought, 
Nought still had been. Eternal there must be. 
But, what eternal? Why not human race, 
And Adam's ancestors, without an end ? 
That's hard to be conceived, since every link 
Of that long chain'd succession is so frail ; 
Can every part depend, and not the whole? 
Yet, grant it true, new difficulties rise : 
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. 
Whence earth and these bright orbs ? Eternal too ! 
Grant matter was eternal : still these orbs 
Would want some other father. Much design 
Is seen in all their motions, all their makes. 
Design implies intelligence and art, 
That can't be from themselves — or man ; that art 
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow : 
And nothing greater yet allow'd than man. 
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain, 
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight ? 
Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume 
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly ? 
Has matter innate motion ? Then each atom, 
Asserting its indisputable right 
To dance, would form an universe of dust. 
Has matter none ? Then whence these glorious forms, 
And boundless flights, from shapeless and reposed ? 
Has matter more than motion ? Has it thought, 
Judgment and genius ? Is it deeply learn'd 
In mathematics ? Has it framed such laws, 
Which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal ? 
If art to form, and council to conduct, 
And that with greater far than human skill, 
Besides not in each block — a Godhead reigns — 
And if a God there is — that Ow iiow great ! 



SECT. VII.] READING. 195 

X. — Evening in Paradise described. Adam and Eve's 
Conversation and Evening Worship. 

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
Had in her sober livery all things clad. 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
They to their grassy couch, these to their nest 
Were sunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
She all night long her amorous descant sung : 
Silence was pleased. Now glow'd the firmament 
With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest ; till the moon, 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light, 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 

When Adam thus to Eve. Fair consort, th' hour 
Of night, and all things now retired to rest, 
Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
Labour and rest, as day and night to men, 
Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep 
Now falling, with soft slumb'rous weight inclines 
Our eyelids. Other creatures all day long 
Rove idle, unemploy'd, and less need rest : 
Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
Appointed, which declares his dignity, 
And the regard of Heaven on all his ways : 
While other animals inactive range, 
And of their doings God takes no account. 
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
With first approach of light, we must be risen, 
And at our pleasant labour, to reform 
Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green, 
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, 
That mock our scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop their w^anton growth ; 
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth, 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease : 
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest. 

To whom thus Eve, w 7 ith perfect beauty adorned: 
My author and disposer ! what thou bid'st 
Unargued I obey ; so God ordains ; 
God is thy law, thou mine ; to know no more 
Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise. 
With thee conversing, I forget all time, 
All seasons and their change : all please alike. 



196 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
With charm of earliest birds : pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
Glist'ning with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train : 
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
With charms of earliest birds ; nor rising sun, 
On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, 
Glist'ning with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ; 
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night, 
With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon, 
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet. 

Thus, at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, 
Both turn'd ; and under open sky adored 
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven, 
Which they beheld ; the moon's resplendent globe, 
And starry pole : Thou also mad'st the night, 
Maker omnipotent, and thou the day 
Which we, in our appointed work employ'd, 
Have finish'd ; happy in our mutual help 
And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss, 
Ordain'd by thee; and this delicious place, 
For us too large ; where thy abundance wants 
Partakers, and uncropt, falls to the ground : 
But thou hast promised from us two, a race 
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, 
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. 

X. -!— Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 



SECT. VII.] READING. 197 

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
The swallow, twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure : 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
Await, alike, the inevitable hour ; 
The paths of glory lead — but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? 

Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire : 
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
17* 



198 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
The dark, unfatbom'd caves of ocean bear ; 
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone, 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame : 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray — 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life, 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfuiness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day ; 
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 



SECT. VII.] READING. 199 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 
If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 
Brushing with hasty steps, the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree, 
Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne, 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : 

Heaven did a recompense as. largely send. 

He gave to mis'ry all he had — a tear ; 

He gain'd from heaven ('twas all he wish'd) — a friend, 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they, alike, in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



200 LESSONS IN [PART I. 



XI. — Thanatopsis. 

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language : for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile, 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. 

When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, — 
Go forth under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, w r hile from all around — 
Earth, and her w r aters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice — 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid w T ith many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix for ever with the elements, 
To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone. Nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. 

The hills, 
Rock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 



SECT. VII.] READING. 201 

That make the meadows green ; and, pour'd round all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. 

The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe, are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no "sound 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep. — The dead reign there, alone. 

So shalt thou rest. — And what if thou shalt fall, 
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone ; the solemn brood of care 
Plod on ; and each one, as before, will chase 
His favourite phantom ; — yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. 

As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men, — 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, — matron and maid, 
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles 
And beauty of its innocent age cut off, — 
Shall one by one be gather'd by thy side, 
By those who, in their turn, shall follow them. 

So live, that, when thy summon comes, to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustain'd and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



202 LESSONS IN [PART I. 



XII. — Scipio restoring the Captive Lady to her Lover. 

When to his glorious first essay in war, 
New Carthage fell, there all the flower of Spain 
Were kept in hostage ; a full field presenting 
For Scipio's generosity to shine. A noble virgin, 
Conspicuous far o'er all the captive dames, 
Was mark'd the general's prize. She wept and blush'd, 
Young, fresh, and blooming like the morn. An eye 
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud 
Of purest white. A secret charm combined 
Her features, and infused enchantment through them. 
Her shape was harmony. But eloquence 
Beneath her beauty fails ; which seem'd on purpose 
By nature lavish'd on her, that mankind 
May see the virtue of a hero tried 
Almost beyond the stretch of human force. 
Soft as she pass'd along, with downcast eyes, 
Where gentle sorrow swell'd, and now and then, 
Dropp'd o'er her modest cheeks a trickling tear, 
Thp Roman legions languish'd, and hard war 
Felt more than pity : e'en their chief himself, 
As on his high tribunal raised he sat, 
Turn'd from the dang'rous sight; and, chiding, ask'd 
His officers, if by this gift they meant 
To cloud his glory in its very dawn. 

She, question'd of her birth, in trembling accents, 
With tears and blushes, broken, told her tale. 
But when he found her royally descended ; 
Of her old captive parents the sole joy ; 
And that a hapless Celuberian prince, 
Her lover and beloved, forgot his chains, 
His lost dominions, and for her alone 
Wept out his tender soul : sudden the heart 
Of this young, conquering, loving, godlike Roman, 
Felt all the great divinity of virtue. 
His wishing youth stood check'd, his tempting power, 
Restrain'd by kind humanity. At once, 
He for her parents and her lover call'd. 
The various scene imagine. How his troops 
Look'd dubious on, and wonder'd what he meant ; 
While, stretch'd below, the trembling suppliant lay 
Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions — fear 
Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief, 
Anxiety and love, in every shape. 
To these, as different sentiments succeeded, 



SECT. VII.] READING. 203 

As mix'd emotions, when the man divine 

Thus the dread silence to the lover broke : 

"We both are young* — both cbarm'd. The right of war 

Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power ; 

With whom I could, in the most sacred ties, 

Live out a happy life. But, know that Romans, 

Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer ; 

Then take her to thy soul ! and with her, take 

Thy liberty and kingdom. In return, 

I ask but this — When you behold these eyes, 

These charms, with transport, be a friend to Rome." 

Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute ; 

While the loud camp, and all the clust'ring crowd 

That hung around, rang with repeated shouts ; 

Fame took th' alarm, and through resounding Spain 

Blew fast the fair report ; which more than arms, 

Admiring nations to the Romans gain'd. 

XIII. — Pope's humourous Complaint to Dr. Jlrbuthnot, of 
the Impertinence of Scribblers. 

Shut, shut the door, good John ! — fatigued, I said : 
Tie up the knocker — say I'm sick, I'm dead. 
The dog-star rages ! Nay, 'tis past a doubt, 
All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out. 
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 
They rave, recite, and madden round the land. 
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ? 
They pierce my thickets ; through my grot they glide; 
By land, by water, they renew the charge ; 
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge ; 
No place is sacred ; not the church is free ; 
E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me. 
Then, from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme — 
" Happy to catch me just at dinner-time." 
Friend of my soul ! (which did not you prolong, 
The world had wanted many an idle song,) 
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? 
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? 
A dire dilemma ! — either way I 'm sped ; 
If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. 
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I ! 
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. 
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ; 
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. 
I sit, with sad civility ; I read, 
With serious anouish and an aching head: 



204 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

Then drop at last, but in unwilling ears, 
This saving counsel — "Keep your piece nine years." 
"Nine years!" (cries he, who, high in Drury-lane, 
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, 
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, 
Obliged by hunger, and request of friends;) 
"The piece you think is incorrect. Why, take it ; 
I 'm all submission, what you 'd have it, make it." 

Three things another's modest wishes bound — 
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. 
Pitholeon sends to me — " You know his Grace ; 
I want a patron — ask him for a place." 
" Pitholeon libell'd me." — " But here 's a letter 
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better." 
Bless me ! a packet ! — 'Tis a stranger sues : 
"A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." 
If I dislike it — " Furies, death, and rage ;" 
If I approve — "Commend it to the stage." 
There, thank my stars, my- whole commission ends; 
The players and I are luckily no friends. 
Fired that the house reject him — " 'Sdeath, I '11 print it, 
And shame the fools. — Your interest, sir, with Lintot." 
"Lintot (dull rogue) will think your price too much." 
"Not if you, sir, revise it and retouch." 
All my demurs but double his attacks ; 
At last he whispers — " Do, and we go snacks ;" 
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door — 
" Sir, let me see you and your works no more." 

There are, who to my person pay their court : 
I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short : 
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high ; 
Such Ovid's nose ; and, " Sir, you have an eye." 
Go on, obliging creatures ; make me see, 
All that disgraced my betters met in me. 
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 
Just so immortal Maro held his head ; 
And when I die, be sure you let me know, 
Great Homer died — three thousand years ago. 

XIV. — Hymn to Adversity. 

Daughter of Jove, relentless power, 
Thou tamer of the human breast, 
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour, 
The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
Bound in thy adamnntine chain, 
The proud are taught to taste of pain ; 



SECT. VII.] READING. 205 

And purple tyrants vainly groan, 
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 

When first thy sire to send on earth 
Virtue, his darling child, design'd, 
To thee he gave the heavenly birth, 
And bade thee form her infant mind. 
Stern, rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
With patience many a year she bore ; 
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 
And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' wo. 

Scared at thy frown, terrific, fly 
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 
And leave us leisure to be good. 
Light they disperse, and with them go 
The summer Friend, the flatt'ring Foe, 
By vain Prosperity received, 
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. 

Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, 
Immersed in rapturous thought profound. 
And Melancholy, silent maid, 
With leaden eye, that loves the ground, 
Still on thy solemn steps attend : 
Warm Charity, the general friend ; 
With Justice, to herself severe ; 
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 

Oh ! gently on thy suppliant's head, 
Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand ! 
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 
Not circled with thy vengeful band, 
(As by the impious thou art seen) 
With thund'ring voice and threat'ning mien, 
With screaming Horror's funeral cry, 
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 

Thy form benign, Oh, Goddess ! wear ; 

Thy milder influence impart ! 

Thy philosophic train be there. 

To soften, not to wound my heart. 

Thy gen'rous spark, extinct, revive ; 

Teach me to love and to forgive : 

Exact my own defects to scan ; 
What others are, to feel ; and know myself a man. 
18 



206 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 



XV. — The Passions. — Jin Ode. 

When Music, heavenly maid ! was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell ; 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting. 
By turns, they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined : 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round, 
They snatch'd her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart, 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each, (for madness ruled the hour,) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear, his hand its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ; 
And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 

In lightnings own'd his secret stings, 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woful measures, wan Despair 

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled : 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air : 

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, Oh, Hope ! with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure ! 

Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
She call'd on Echo still through all her song : 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair 

And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, 
Revenge impatient rose. 

He threw his biood-stain'd sword in thunder down; 



SECT. VII.] READING. 207 

And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo ; 

And, ever and anon, he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat : 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 

Dejected Pity at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild, unalter'd mien, 
While each strain'd ball of sight — seem'd bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state : 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd : 

And, now it courted Love ; now, raving, call'd on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 

And, from her wild sequester'd seat, 

In notes, by distance made more sweet, 
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul, 

And dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms, the mingled measure stole, 
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay 

(Round an holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace, and lonely musing) 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But, Oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ; 
The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Glueen, 
Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; 

And Sport leap'd up and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, 

He, with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd — 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol ; 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought, who heafd the strain, 



208 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

They saw in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 

Amidst the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing : 
While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round, 
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound) 
And he, amidst his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 



SECTION VIII. 
I. — Milton's Lamentation for the Loss of his Sight. 

Hail, holy light ! offspring of heaven first-born ! 
Or of th' Eternal, co-eternal beam ! 
May I express thee unbalnTd ? since God is light, 
And never, but in unapproached light 
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee, 
Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 
Or hear'st thou rather, pure ethereal stream, 
Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun, 
Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep, 
Won from the void and formless infinite. 
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 
Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained 
In that obscure sojourn ; while in my flight, 
Through utter, and through middle darkness borne, 
With other notes, than to the Orphean lyre, 
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night : 
Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down 
The dark descent, and up to reascend, 
Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe, 
And feel thy sovereign vital lamp — but thou 
Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain 
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, 
Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more 
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt, 
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
Smit with love of sacred song — but chief 
Thee, Zion, and the flowery brooks beneath, 
That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow. 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 209 

Nightly I visit — nor sometimes forget 

Those other two equall'd with me in fate, 

So were I equall'd with them in renown, 

Blind. Thamyris, and blind Mseonides ; 

And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old : 

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 

Harmonious numbers — as the wakeful bird 

Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid, 

Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus, with the year, 

Seasons return — but not to me returns 

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 

But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 

Surround me, from the cheerful ways of men 

Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair, 

Presented with an universal blank 

Of nature's works, to me expunged and razed, 

And wisdom, at one entrance, quite shut out. 

So much the rather, thou, celestial light, 

Shine inward, and the mind, through all her powers, 

Irradiate ; there plant eyes ; all mist from thence, 

Purge and disperse ; that I may see and tell 

Of things invisible to mortal sigfht. 



IT. — L* Allegro, or the Merry Man. 

Hence, loathed Melancholy ! 
Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, 

In Stygian cave forlorn, 
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ; 

Find out some uncouth cell, 
Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, 

And the night-raven sings ; 
There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, 

As ragged as thy locks, 
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 

But come, thou goddess fair and free, 

In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne ! 

And, by men, heart-easing Mirth, 

Whom lovely Venus at a birth, 

With two sister-graces more, 

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore. 

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 

Jest and youthful Jollity. 

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 

Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles ; 

18* o 



210 LESSONS IN [PART 1. 

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come ! and trip it as you go, 
On the light fantastic toe ; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee, 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty — 
And if I give thee honour due, 
Mirth admit me of thy crew, 
To live with her, and live with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures free : 
To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And, singing, startle the dull Night 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good-morrow, 
Through the sweetbriar or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine ; 
While the cock, with lively din, 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before ; 
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill, 
Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
Sometime walking, not unseen, 
By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate, 
Where the great sun begins his state, 
Robed in flames and amber light, 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight, 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
Whilst the landscape round it measures; 
Russet lawns and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains on whose barren breast 
The lab'ring clouds do often rest ; 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 211 

Meadows trim, with daisies pied ; 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : 
Towers and battlements it sees, 
Bosom'd high in tufted trees, 
"Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, 
Are at their savoury dinner set, 
Of herbs and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
And then, in haste, her bower she leaves, 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
Or, if the earlier season lead, 
To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 

Tower'd cities please us then, 
And the busy hum of men, 
"Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
In weeds of peace high triumph hold ; 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear, 
In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
With mask, and antique pageantry ; 
Such sights as youthful poets dream, 
On summer eves, by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Johnson's learned sock be on, 
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
The melting voice through mazes running ; 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of Harmony : 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber, on a bed 



212 LESSONS IN [PARTI. 

Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regain'd Eurydice. 

These delights, if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

III. — On the Pursuits of Mankind. 

Honour and shame from no condition rise ; 
Act well your part — there all the honour lies. 
Fortune in men has some small difference made ; 
One flaunts in rags — one flutters in brocade ; 
The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd ; 
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. 
" What differ more," you cry, " than crown and cowl I" 
I tell you friend — a wise man and a fool. 
You '11 find, if once the monarch acts the monk, 
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk; 
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow : 
The rest is all but leather or prunella. 

Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race, 
In quiet flow from Lucrece, to Lucrece : 
But by your father's worth if yours you rate, 
Count me those only who were good and great. 
Go ! if your ancient, but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood : 
Go ! and pretend your family is young, 
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. 
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? 
Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards. 
Look next on greatness — say where greatness lies. 
"Where, but among the heroes and the wise ?" 
Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed, 
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede : 
The whole strange purpose of their lives to find, 
Or make an enemy of all mankind ! 
Not one looks backward ; omvard still he goes ; 
Yet ne'er looks forward, farther than his nose. 
No less alike the politic and wise ; 
All sly slow things with circumspective eyes. 
Men in their loose, unguarded hours they take, 
Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. 
But grant that those can conquer ; these can cheat ; 
'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great. 
Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, 
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 213 

Who noble ends by noble means obtains, 
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains ; 
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed 
Like Socrates — that man is great indeed. 

What 's fame ? a fancied life in others' breath,- 
A thing beyond us, e'en before our death. 
Ail fame is foreign, but of true desert, 
Plays round the head, but cornes not to the heart ; 
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs 
Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas : 
And more true joy Marcellus, exiled, feels, 
Than Caesar, with a Senate at his heels. 

In parts superior what advantage lies 1 
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise ? 
'Tis but to know how little can be known ; 
To see all others' faults, and feel our own ; 
Condemn'd in business or in arts to drudge, 
Without a second, or without a judge. 
Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land ? 
All fear, none aid you, and few understand. 
Painful pre-eminence ! yourself to view 
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too. 

Bring then these blessings to a strict account ; 
Make fair deductions, see to what they 'mount ; 
How much, of other, each is sure to cost : 
How each, for other, oft is wholly lost ; 
How inconsistent greater goods with these ; 
How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease : 
Think. And, if still such things thy envy call, 
Say, would'st thou be the man to whom they fall ? 
To sigh for ribands, if thou art so silly, 
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy. 
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life ? 
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife. 
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined ; 
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind. 
Or ravish'd with the whistling of a name, 
See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame. 
If all, united, thy ambition call, 
From ancient story, learn to scorn them all. 

IV. — Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn. 

These are thy glorious works ! Parent of good ! 
Almighty ! thine this universal frame, 
Thus wond'rous fair : Thyself how wond'rous, then, 
Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens, 



214 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

To us invisible, or dimly seen 

m these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 

Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 

Angels ! for ye behold them, and with songs 

And choral symphonies, day without night, 

Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heaven ! 

On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol 

Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end. 

Fairest of stars! last in the train of night, 

If better thou belong not to the dawn. 

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 

With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 

While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 

Thou Sun ! of this great world both eye and soul, 

Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 

In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 

And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st. 

Moon ! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, 

With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; 

And ye five other wand'ring fires ! that move 

In mystic dance, not without song ; resound 

His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. 

Air, and ye elements ! the eldest birth 

Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 

Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 

And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change 

Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 

Ye mists and exhalations ! that now rise 

From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray. 

Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 

In honour to the world's great Author rise ; 

Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, 

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 

Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds ! that from four quarters blow, 

Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 

With every plant, in sign of worship, wave. 

Fountains ! and ye that warble, as ye flow, 

Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds 

That, singing, up to heaven's gate ascend, 

Bear on your wings, and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 

The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep ! 

Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 215 

Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. — 
Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still, 
To give us only good ; and, if the night 
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd — 
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 

V. — Parting of Hector and Andromache. 

Hector now pass'd, with sad presaging heart, 
To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part. 
At home he sought her; but he sought in vain ; 
She, with one maid, of all her menial train, 
Had thence retired ; and with her second joy, 
The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy. 
Pensive she stood on Ilion's towery height, 
Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the sight : 
There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, 
Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore. 

Hector, this heard, return'd without delay ; 
Swift through the town he took his former way, 
Through streets or palaces, and walks of state, 
And met the mourner at the Scsean gate. 
With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair, 
His blameless wife, Aetion's wealthy heir. 

The nurse stood near ; in whose embraces press'd, 
His only hope hung, smiling at her breast ; 
Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, 
Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn. 
Silent, the warrior smiled ; and pleased, resign'd 
To tender passions all his mighty mind. 
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, 
Hung on his hand, and then, dejected, spoke. 
Her bosom labour'd with a boding sigh, 
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye. 

" Too daring prince ! ah ! whither wilt thou run ? 
Ah ! too forgetful of thy wife and son ! 
And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be ? 
A widow I, a helpless orphan he ! 
For sure, such courage length of life denies ; 
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. 
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain ; 
Now hosts oppose thee — and thou must be slain. 
Oh, grant me, gods ! ere Hector meets his doom, 
All I can ask of heaven — an early tomb ! 
So shall my days in one sad tenor run, 
And end with sorrows, as they first begun. 



216 LESSONS IN [PARTf. 

Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share ; 
Oh ! prove a husband's, and a parent's care. 
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, 
Where yon wild fig-tree joins the wall of Troy : 
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given ; 
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. 
Let others in the field their arms employ ; 
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy." 

The chief replied — " That post shall be my care ; 
Nor that alone, but all the works of war. 
How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, 
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, 
Attaint the lustre of my former name, 
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame ! 
My early youth was bred to warlike pains ; 
My soul impels me to the martial plains. 
Still foremost let me stand to guard the throne, 
To save my father's honours and my own. 
Yet, come it will ! the day decreed by fates ! 
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !) 
The day when thou, imperial Troy, must bend, 
Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end, 
And yet, no dire presage so wounds my mind, 
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, 
Not Priam's hoary hairs, defiled with gore, 
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, 
As thine, Andromache ! Thy griefs I dread ! 
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, 
In Argive looms our battles to design, 
And woes, of which so large a part was thine. 
There, while you groan beneath the load of life, 
They cry — "Behold the mighty Hector's wife !" 
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, 
Embitters all thy woes by naming me. 
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, 
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name ! 
May I lie cold before that dreadful day, 
Press'd with a load of monumental clay ! 
Thy Hector, wrapp'd in everlasting sleep, 
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep." 

Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy 
Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. 
The babe clung, crying, to the nurse's breast, 
Scared with the dazzling helm, and nodding crest. 
With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, 
And Hector hasted to relieve his child : 
The glitt'ring terrors from his brows unbound, 
And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 217 

Then kiss'd the child ; and, lifting high in air, 
Thus to the gods preferr'd a parent's prayer. 

" Oh thou, whose glory fills the ethereal throne ! 
And all ye deathless powers ! protect my son ! 
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, 
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown ; 
Against his country's foes the war to wage, 
And rise the Hector of the future age. 
So when triumphant from successful toils, 
Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, 
Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, 
And say, « This chief transcends his father's fame ;' 
While, pleased amidst the general shouts of Troy, 
His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." 

He spoke : and, fondly gazing on her charms, 
Restored the pleasing burden to her arms. 
Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, 
Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd : 
The troubled pleasure, soon chastised with fear, 
She mingled with the smile a tender tear. 
The soften'd chief with kind compassion view'd, 
And dried the falling drops ; and thus pursued — 

" Andromache ! my soul's far better part ! 
Why with untimely sorrow heaves thy heart ? 
No hostile hand can antedate my doom, 
Till fate condemn me to the silent tomb: 
Fix'd is the term of all the race of earth ; 
And such the hard condition of our birth. 
No force can then resist, no flight can save; 
All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. 
No more — but hasten to thy tasks at home; 
There guide the spindle, and direct the loom. 
Me, glory summons to the martial scene ; 
The field of combat is the sphere for men : 
Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, 
The first in danger, as the first in fame." 

Thus having said, th' undaunted chief resumes 
His towery helmet, black with shading plumes. 
His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, 
Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, 
That stream'd at every look ; then moving slow, 
Sought her own palace, and indulged her wo. 
There, while her tears deplored the god-like man, 
Through all her train the soft infection ran : 
The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, 
And mourn'd the living Hector as the dead. 

19 



218 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

VI. — Facetious History of John Gilpin. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown ; 
A train-band captain eke was he, 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear — 

"Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we shall then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 

All in a chaise and pair. 

My sister and my sister's child, 

Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied — "I do admire 

Of woman-kind but one; 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

I am a linen-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know; 
And my good friend, Tom Callender, 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Q,uoth Mrs. Gilpin — "That's well said; 

And, for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish'd with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 

O'erjoy'd was he to find, 
That though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls ; and all agog, 

To dash through thick and thin! 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 219 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folks so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side, 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again. 

. For saddletree scarce reach'd had he, 
His journey to begin, 
"When turning round his head, he saw 
Three customers come in. 

So down he came, for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind ; 
When Betty scream'd into his ears — 

"The wine is left behind." 

" Good lack !" quoth he, " yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I wear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mrs. Gilpin, careful soul, 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew; 

He hung a bottle on each side 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipp'd from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again, 

Upon his nimble steed ; 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 
Beneath his well-shod feet, 



£20 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

The snorting beast began to trot, 
Which gall'd him in his seat. 

" So, fair and softly," John he cried ; 

But John he cried in vain ; 
The trot became a gallop soon, 
In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must, 

Who cannot sit upright ; 
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

His horse, who never had before 

Been handled in this kind, 
Affrighted fled ; and as he flew, 

Left all the world behind. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and gay ; 
Till loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung : 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 

Up flew the windows all ; 
And every soul cried out, " Well done !" 

As loud as they could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ! 

His fame soon spread around — 
" He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound." 

And still, as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view, 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low, 
The bottles twain behind his back, 

Were shatter'd at a blow, 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 221 

Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leather girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
And till he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay. 

And there he threw the Wash about, 

On both sides of the way ; 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton, his loving wife, 

From the balcony, spied 
Her tender husband, wond'ring much 

To see how he did ride. 

" Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! here 's the house !" 

They all at once did cry ; 
"The dinner waits, and we are tired I" 

Said Gilpin — " So ami!" 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why? — His owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin, out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend's, Tom Calender's, 

His horse at last stood still. 

Tom Callender, surprised to see 

His friend in such a trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : — 
19* 



222 LESSONS IN [part I. 

" What news ? what news ? Your tidings tell ; 

Make haste and tell me all ! 
Say, why bare-headed are you come ? 

Or why you come at all !" 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke ; 
And thus unto Tom Callender, 

In merry strains he spoke : — 

" I came because your horse would come ; 

And if I well forbode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here ; 

They are upon the road." 

Tom Callender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Return'd him not a single word, 

But to the house went in : 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig, 

A wig that rlow'd behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear; 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up ; and, in his turn, 

Thus show'd. his ready wit — 
" My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

But let me scrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat — for well you may 

Be in a hungry case !" 

Said John — " It is my wedding day ; 

And folks would gape and stare, 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware !" 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

" I am in haste to dine ! ■ 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine." 

Ah ! luckless speech, and bootless boast, 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear : 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 223 

Whereat his horse did snort, as if 

He heard a lion roar ; 
And gallop'd off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; 
He lost them sooner than at first ; 

For why ? — They were too big. 

Now Gilpin's wife, when she had seen 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country, far away, 

She pull'd out half a crown : 

And thus unto the youth she said 

That drove them to the Bell, 
" This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and well." ' 

The youth did ride, and soon they met ; 

He tried to stop John's horse 
By seizing fast the flowing rein ; 

But only made things worse : 

For not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done, 
He thereby frighted Gilpin's horse, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin — and away 

Went postboy at his heels ; 
The postboy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumb'ring of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly 
With postboy scamp'ring in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry. 

" Stop thief ! stop thief ! a highwayman !" 

Not one of them was mute ; 
So they, and all that pass'd that way, 

Soon join'd in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike-gates again 

Flew open in short space ; 
The tollmen thinking, as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race ; 



224 LESSONS IN [part I. 

And so he did, and won it, too ; 

For he got first to town : 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up, 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing — "Long live the king; 

And Gilpin long live he : 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 
May I be there to see !" 

VII. — Procrastination. 

Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer: 
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life ! 
Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 
And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
If not so frequent, would not this be strange ? 
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. 
Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears 
The palm, " That all men are about to live," 
For ever on the brink of being born : 
All pay themselves the compliment to think 
They one day shall not drivel, and their pride 
On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
At least their own ; their future selves applaud : 
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! 
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails 
That lodged in Fate's, to Wisdom they consign; 
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. 
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool ; 
And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
All promise is poor dilatory man, 
And that through every stage. When young, indeed, 
In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 
Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish, 
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
At thirty man suspects himself a fool ; 
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
At fifty chides his infamous delay, 
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
In all the magnanimity of thought 
Resolves, and re-resolves ; then dies the same. 

And why? because he thinks himself immortal 
All men think all men mortal but themselves ; 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 225 

Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fale 
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread : 
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 
Soon close ; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. 
As from the wing no scar the sky retains, 
The parted wave no furrow from the keel, 
So dies in human hearts the thought of death : 
Even with the tender tear which nature sheds 
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 

VIII.— The Creation of the World. 

***** Meanwhile the Son 
On his great expedition now appear'd, 
Girt with omnipotence, with radiance crown'd, 
Of majesty divine ; sapience and love 
Immense, and all his Father in him shone. 
About his chariot numberless were pour'd 
Cherub and seraph, potentates, and thrones, 
And virtues ; wing'd spirits, and chariots wing'd 
From the armory of God ; where stand of old 
Myriads, between two brazen mountains lodg'd 
Against a solemn day, harness'd at hand. 
Celestial equipage ! and now came forth 
Spontaneous, for within them spirit lived, 
Attendant on their Lord ; heaven open'd wide 
Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound ! 
On golden hinges moving, to let forth 
The King of Glory, in his powerful Word 
And Spirit coming to create new worlds. 
On heavenly ground they stood, and from the shore 
They view'd the vast immeasurable abyss, 
Outrageous as a sea ; dark, wasteful, wild ; 
Up from the bottom turn'd by furious winds, 
And surging waves, as mountains to assault 
Heaven's height, and with the centre mix the pole. 

Silence, ye troubled waves ! and thou deep, peace ! 
Said then the omniflc Word, your discord end : 
Nor stay'd ; but on the wings of Cherubim 
Uplifted, in paternal glory rode 
Far into Chaos, and the world unborn ; 
For Chaos heard his voice ; him all his train 
Follow'd in bright procession to behold 
Creation, and the wonders of his might. 
Then stay'd the fervid wheels, and in his hand 
He took the golden compasses, prepared 
In God's eternal store, to circumscribe 



226 LESSONS IN [part I. 

This universe, and all created things. 
One foot he center'd, and the other turn'd 
Round through the vast profundity obscure, 
And said, Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds, 
This be thy just circumference, O world ! 

Thus God the heaven created, thus the earth, 
Matter unform'd and void ! Darkness profound 
Cover'd the abyss ; but on the watery calm 
His brooding wings the spirit of God outspread, 
And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth 
Throughout the fluid mass ; but downward purged 
The black, tartareous, cold, infernal dregs, 
Adverse to life ; then founded, then conglobed 
Like things to light, the rest to several place 
Disparted ; and between, spun out the air ; 
And earth, self-balanced, on her centre hung. 

IX. — Overthrow of the Rebel Angels. 

So spake the Son, and into terror changed 
His countenance, too severe to be beheld, 
And full of wrath bent on his enemies. 
Ai once the four spread out their starry wings, 
With dreadful shape contiguous, and the orbs 
Of his fierce chariot roll'd, as with the sound 
Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. 
He on his impious foes right onward drove, 
Gloomy as night. Under his burning wheels 
The steadfast empirean shook throughout, 
All but the throne itself of God. Full soon 
Among them he arrived ; in his right hand 
Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent 
Before him, such as in their souls infix'd 
Plagues. They, astonish'd, all resistance lost, 
All courage; down their idle weapons dropp'd: 
O'er shields, and helms, and helm'd heads he rode, 
Of thrones and mighty seraphim prostrate, 
That wish'd the mountains, now, might be again 
Thrown on them as a shelter from his ire. 
Nor less on either side, tempestuous fell 
His arrows, from the fourfold visaged four 
Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels 
Distinct alike with multitude of eyes: 
One spirit in them ruled ; and every eye 
Glared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire 
Among th' accursed, that wither'd all their strength, 
And, of their wonted vigour, left them drain'd, 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 227 

Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen. 

Yet half his strength he put not forth ; but check'd 

His thunder in mid-volley ; for he meant 

Not to destroy, but to root them out of heaven. 

The overthrown he raised ; and as a herd 

Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd, 

Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursued 

With terrors and with furies, to the bounds 

And crystal wall of heaven ; which, opening wide, 

Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclosed 

Into the wasteful deep. The monstrous sight 

Struck them with horror backward ; but far worse 

Urged them behind. Headlong themselves they threw 

Down from the verge of heaven ; eternal wrath 

Burnt after them to the bottomless pit. 



- Alexander's Feast ; or, the Power of Music* — An Ode 
for St. Cecilia's Bay. 

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son — 
Aloft in awful state, 
The godlike hero sat 
On his imperial throne. 

His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound ; 

So should desert in arms be crown'd. 
The lovely Thais by his side, 
Sat like a blooming eastern bride, 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave, 
None but the brave, deserve the fair. 
Timotheus placed on high, 

Amid the tuneful choir, 

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above ; 
(Such is the power of mighty love !) 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode. 

When he to fair Olympia press'd, 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 



228 LESSONS IN [part I. 

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
A present deity, they shout around, 
A present deity ; the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravish'd ears the monarch hears, 
Assumes the god, affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 
The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung : 
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young. 
The jolly god in triumph comes ! 
Sound the trumpet ; beat the drums ; 
Flush'd with a purple grace, 
He shows his honest face : 
Now give the hautboys breath — He comes ! he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first ordain : 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
Rich the treasure ; 
Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure, after pain. 
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And while he heaven and earth defied, 
Changed his hand and check'd his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse, 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius, great and good, 
By too severe a fate, 
Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, 
Fall'n, from his high estate, 
And welt'ring in his blood : 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed, 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast look the joyless victor sat, 
Revolving, in his alter'd soul, 

The various turns of fate below ; 
And now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 
The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree : 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move ; 
For pity melts the mind to love. 



SECT. VIII.] READING. 229 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures ; 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honour but an empty bubble ; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying. 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh, think it worth enjoying ! 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee : 
Take the good the gods provide thee ; 
The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
So love was crown'd ; but music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair, 
Who caused his care ; 
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd ; 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : 
At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, 
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. 
Now, strike the golden lyre again ; 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ; 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark ! hark ! — the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head, 
As awaked from the dead ; 
And, amazed, he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries — 
See the furies arise ! 

See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
And unburied, remain 
Inglorious on the plain. 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold ! how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods ! 
The princes applaud, with a furious joy ; 
And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy : 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey ; 
And, like another Helen — fired another Troy. 
20 



230 LESSONS IN READING. [PART I. 

Thus, long ago, 

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
While organs yet were mute ; 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage — or kindle soft desire. 
At last, divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame. 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 

He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 



PART II. 
LESSONS IN SPEAKING. 

SECTION I. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

I. — On Truth and Integrity. 

Truth and integrity have all the advantages of appearance, 
and many more. If the show of anything be good for anything, 
I am sure the reality is better ; for why does any man dissemble, 
or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good 
to have the qualities he pretends to ? for, to counterfeit and dis- 
semble, is to put on the appearance of some real excellency. 
Now, the best way for a man to seem to be anything, is really 
to be what he would seem to be. Besides, it is often as trouble- 
some to support the pretence of a good quality, as to have it ; 
and if a man have it not, it is most likely he will be discovered 
to want it ; and then all his labour to seem to have it is lost. 
There is something unnatural in painting, which a skilful eye 
will easily discern from native beauty and complexion. 

It is hard to personate and act a part long; for, where truth 
is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to re- 
turn, and will betray herself at one time or other. Therefore, if 
any man think it convenient to seem good, let him be so indeed ; 
and then his goodness will appear to every one's satisfaction : 
for truth is convincing, and carries its own light and evidence 
along with it ; and will not only commend us to every man's 
conscience, but which is much more, to God, who searcheth our 
hearts. So that, upon all accounts, sincerity is true wisdom. 
Particularly as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath many 
advantages over all the artificial modes of dissimulation and deceit. 
It is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more se- 
cure way of dealing in the world ; it hath less of trouble and 
difficulty, of entanglement and perplexity, of danger and hazard 
in it ; it is the shortest and nearest way to our end, carrying us 
thither in a straight line ; and will hold out, and last longest. 

(231) 



232 LESSONS IN [part II. 

The arts of deceit and cunning continually grow weaker and less 
effectual and serviceable to those that practise them : whereas 
integrity gains strength by use ; and the more and longer any 
man practiseth it, the greater service it does him, by confirming 
his reputation, and encouraging those with whom he hath to do, 
to rqpose the greatest confidence in him ; which is an unspeak- 
able advantage in business and the affairs of life. 

A dissembler must be always upon his guard, and watch him- 
self carefully that he do not contradict his own pretensions ; for 
he acts an unnatural part, and therefore must put a continual 
force and restraint upon himself; whereas, he that acts sincerely, 
hath the easiest task in the world ; because he follows nature, 
and so is put to no trouble and care about his words and actions; 
he needs not invent any pretence beforehand, nor make excuses 
afterwards for anything he hath said or done. 

But insincerity is very troublesome to manage. A hypocrite 
hath so many things to attend to, as make his life a very per- 
plexed and intricate thing. A liar hath need of a good memory, 
lest he contradict at one time what he said at another. But truth 
is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out; 
it is always near at hand, and sits upon our Jip, and is ready to 
drop out before we are aware ; whereas a lie is troublesome, and 
one trick needs a great many more to make it good. 

Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious wisdom, 
and an excellent instrument for the speedy despatch of business. 
It creates confidence in those we have to deal with, saves the 
labour of many inquiries, and brings things to an issue in a few 
words. It is like travelling in a plain beaten road, which com- 
monly brings a man sooner to his journey's end than by-ways, 
in which men often lose themselves. In a word, whatever con- 
venience may be thought to be in falsehood and dissimulation, it 
is soon over ; but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it 
brings a man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so 
that he is not believed when he speaks the truth, nor trusted 
when perhaps he means honestly. When a man hath once for- 
feited the reputation of his integrity, nothing will then serve his 
turn, neither truth nor falsehood. 

Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a day, and 
should never have occasion to converse more with mankind, 
never more need their good opinion or good word, it were then 
no great matter (as far as respects the affairs of this world) if he 
spent his reputation all at once, and ventured it at one throw. 
But, if he be to continue in the world, and would have the ad- 
vantage of reputation whilst he is in it, let him make use of sin- 
cerity in all his words and actions ; for nothing but this will hold 
out to the end. All other arts will fail; but truth and integrity 
will carry a man through, and bear him out to the last. 



SECT. I.] SPEAKING. 233 

II. — On Doing as ive would be Bone unto. 

Human laws are often so numerous as to escape our memo- 
ries ; so darkly sometimes, and inconsistently worded, as to 
puzzle our understandings ; and they are not unfrequently ren- 
dered still more obscure by the nice distinctions and subtile rea- 
sonings of those who profess to clear them : so that, under these 
several disadvantages, they lose much of their force and influ- 
ence ; and, in some cases, raise more disputes, than, perhaps, 
they determine. But here is a law, attended with none of these 
inconveniences ; the grossest minds can scarce misapprehend it ; 
the weakest memories are capable of retaining it ; no perplexing 
comment can easily cloud it ; the authority of no man's gloss 
upon earth can (if we are but sincere) sway us to make a wrong 
construction of it. What is said of all the gospel precepts by the 
evangelical prophet, is more eminently true of this : " It is a high- 
way ; and the wayfaring man, though a fool, shall not err therein." 

It is not enough that a rule, which is to be of general use, is 
suited to all capacities, so that, wherever it is represented to the 
mind, it is presently agreed to : it must also be apt to offer itself 
to our thoughts, and lie ready for present use, upon all exigen- 
cies and occasions. And such, remarkably such, is that which 
our Lord here recommends to us. We can scarce be so far sur- 
prised by any immediate necessity of acting, as not to have time 
for a short recourse to it, room for a sudden glance as it were 
upon it, in our minds ; where it rests and sparkles always, like 
the Urim and Thummim on the breast of Aaron. There is no 
occasion for us to go in search of it to the oracles of law, dead or 
living ; to the code or pandects ; to the volumes of divines or 
moralists : we need look no further than ourselves for it : for, (to 
use the opposite expression of Moses,) " This commandment 
which I command thee this day, is not hidden from thee, neither 
is it far off. It is not in heaven, that thou shouldest say, Who 
shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it unto us, that we may 
hear it, and do it ? Neither is it beyond the sea, that thou should 
say, Who shall go over the sea for us, and bring it" unto us, that 
we may hear it, and do it ? But the word is very nigh unto 
thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that thou mayest do it." 

It is, moreover, a precept particularly fitted for practice ; as it 
involves in the very notion of it a motive stirring us up to do 
what it enjoins. Other moral maxims propose naked truths to 
the understanding, which operate often but faintly and slowly on 
the will and passions, the two active principles of the mind of 
man : but it is the peculiar character of this that it addresseth 
itself equally to all these powers ; imparts both light and heat to 
us ; and at the same time that it informs us certainly and clearly 
20* 



234 LESSONS IN [part II. 

what we are to do, excites us also in the most tender and moving 
manner to the performance of it. We can often see our neigh- 
bour's misfortune, without a sensible degree of concern ; which 
yet we cannot forbear expressing, when we have once made his 
condition our own, and determined the measure of our obligation 
towards him, by what we ourselves should, in such a case, ex- 
pect from him ; our duty grows immediately our interest and 
pleasure, by means of this powerful principle : the seat of which 
is, in truth, not more in the brain, than in the heart of man : it 
appeals to our very senses ; and exerts its secret force in so pre- 
vailing a way, that it is even felt, as well as understood by us. 

The last recommendation of this rule I shall mention, is its 
vast and comprehensive influence ; for it extends to all ranks and 
conditions of men, and to all kinds of action and intercourse be- 
tween them ; to matters of charity, generosity, and civility, as 
well as justice; to negative no less than positive duties. The 
ruler and the ruled are alike subject to it ; public communities 
can no more exempt themselves from its obligation than private 
persons : "All persons must fall down before it, all nations must 
do it service." And with respect to this extent of it, it is that 
our blessed Lord pronounces it in the text to be " the law and 
the prophets." His meaning is, that whatever rules of the 
second table are delivered in the law of Moses, or in the larger 
comments and explanations of that law made by the other writers 
of the Old Testament (here and elsewhere styled the prophets,) 
they are all virtually comprised in this one short significant say- 
ing, " Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye 
even so unto them." 

III. — On Benevolence and Charity. 

Form as amiable sentiments as you can of nations, communi- 
ties of men, and individuals. If they are true, you do them 
only justice ; if false, though your opinion does not alter their 
nature and make them lovely, you yourself are more lovely for 
entertaining such sentiments. When you feel the bright warmth 
of a temper thoroughly good in your own breast, you will see 
something good in every one about you. It is a mark of little- 
ness of spirit to confine yourself to some minute part of a man's 
character : a man of generous, open, extended views, will grasp 
the whole of it ; without which he cannot pass a right judgment 
on any part. He will not arraign a man's general conduct for 
two or three particular actions ; as knowing that man is a 
changeable creature, and will not cease to be so, till he is united 
to that Being who is " the same yesterday, to-day, and forever." 
He strives to outdo his friends in good offices, and overcomes 
his enemies by them. He thinks he then receives the greatest 



SECT. I.] SPEAKING. 235 

injury, when he returns and revenges one : for then he is " over- 
come of evil." Is the person young who has injured him? he 
will reflect that inexperience of the world, and a warmth of con- 
stitution, may betray his unpractised years into several inadver- 
tencies, which a more advanced age, his own good sense, and 
the advice of a judicious friend, will correct and rectify. Is he 
old ? the infirmities of age and want of health may have set an 
edge upon his spirits, and made him " speak unadvisedly with 
his lips." Is he weak and ignorant ? he considers that it is a 
duty incumbent upon the wise to bear with those that are not so : 
"Ye suffer fools gladly," says St. Paul, "seeing ye yourselves 
are wise." In short, he judges of himself, as far as he can, with 
the strict rigour of justice ; but of others, with the softenings of 
humanity. 

From charitable and benevolent thoughts, the transition is un- 
avoidable to charitable actions. For wherever there is an inex- 
haustible fund of goodness at the heart, it will, under all the dis- 
advantages of circumstances, exert itself in acts of substantial 
kindness. He that is substantially good, will be doing good. 
The man that has a hearty deterrhinate will to be charitable, will 
seldom put men off with the mere will for the deed. For a sin- 
cere desire to do good, implies some uneasiness till the thing be 
done : and uneasiness sets the mind at work, and puts it upon 
the stretch to find out a thousand ways and means of obliging, 
which will ever escape the unconcerned, the indifferent, and the 
unfeeling. 

The most proper objects of your bounty are the necessitous. 
Give the same sum of money, which you bestow on a person in 
tolerable circumstances, to one in extreme poverty ; and observe 
what a wide disproportion of happiness is produced. In the 
latter case, it is like giving a cordial to a fainting person ; in the 
former, it is like giving wine to him who has already quenched 
his thirst. — " Mercy is seasonable in time of affliction, like clouds 
of rain in time of drought." 

And among the variety of necessitous objects, none have a 
better title to our compassion, than those who, after having tasted 
the sweets of plenty, are, by some undeserved calamity, obliged, 
without some charitable relief, to drag out the remainder of life 
in misery and wo: who little thought they should ask their 
daily bread of any but of God ; who, after a life led in affluence, 
" cannot dig, and are ashamed to beg." And they are to be 
relieved in such an endearing manner, with such a beauty of 
holiness, that, at the same time that their wants are supplied, 
their confusion of face may be prevented. 

There is not an instance of this kind in history so affecting, as 
that beautiful one of Boaz to Ruth. He knew her family, and 
how she was reduced to the lowest ebb: when, therefore, she 



236 LESSONS IN [part II. 

begged leave to glean in his fields, he ordered his reapers to let 
fall several handfuls, with a seeming carelessness, but really with 
a set design, that she might gather them up without being- 
ashamed. Thus did he form an artful scheme, that he might 
give, without the vanity and ostentation of giving; and she 
receive, without the shame and confusion of making acknow- 
ledgments. — Take the history in the words of scripture, as it is 
recorded in the book of Ruth. " And when she was risen up to 
glean, Boaz commanded his young men, saying, Let her glean 
even among the sheaves, and rebuke her not ; and let fall also 
some of the handfuls on purpose, and leave them that she may 
glean them, and reproach her not." This was not only doing a 
good action ; it was doing it likewise with a good grace. 

It is not enough we do no harm, that we be negatively good ; 
we must do good, positive good, if we would " enter into life." 
When it would have been as good for the world, if such a man 
had never lived ; it would perhaps have been better for him, 
" if he had never been born." A scanty fortune may limit your 
beneficence, and confine it chiefly to the circle of your domestics, 
relations, and neighbours; but let your benevolence extend as 
far as thought can travel, to the utmost bounds of the world : just 
as it may be only in your power to beautify the spot of ground 
that lies near and close to you ; but you could wish, that, as far 
as your eye can reach, the whole prospect before you were 
cheerful, every thing disagreeable were removed, and every 
thing beautiful made more so. 

IV. — On Happiness. 

The great pursuit of man is after happiness : it is the first and 
strongest desire of his nature ; — in every stage of his life he 
searches for it as for hid treasure ; — courts it under a thousand 
different shapes; — and, though perpetually disappointed — still 
persists — runs after and inquires for it afresh — asks every pas- 
senger who comes in his way, " Who will show him any good ?" 
— Who will assist him in the attainment of it, or direct him to 
the discovery of this great end of all his wishes ? 

He is told by one, to search for it among the more gay and 
youthful pleasures of life ; in scenes of mirth and sprightliness, 
where happiness ever presides, and is ever to be known by the 
joy and laughter which he will see at once painted in her 
looks. 

A second, with a graver aspect, points out to him the costly 
dwellings which pride and extravagance have erected ; — tells the 
inquirer that the object he is in search of inhabits there ; — that 
happiness lives only in company with the great, in the midst of 
much pomp and outward state. That he will easily find her out 



SECT. I.] SPEAKING. 237 

by the coat of many colours she has on, and the great luxury and 
expense of equipage and furniture with which she always sits 
surrounded. 

The miser wonders how any one would mislead and wilfully 
put him upon so wrong a scent — convinces him that happiness 
and extravagance never inhabited under the same roof: that, if 
he would not be disappointed in his search, he must look into 
the plain and thrifty dwelling of the prudent man, who knows 
and understands the worth of money, and cautiously lays it up 
against an evil hour : that it is not the prostitution of wealth upon 
the passions, or the parting with it all, that constitutes happiness 
—but that it is the keeping it together, and the having and 
holding it fast to him and his heirs for ever, which are the chief 
attributes that form this great idol of human worship, to which 
so much incense is offered up every day. 

The epicure, though he easily rectifies so gross a mistake, yet, 
at the same time, he plunges him, if possible, into a greater : for, 
hearing the object of his pursuit to be happiness, and knowing 
of no other happiness than what is seated immediately in his 
senses — he sends the inquirer there ; — tells him it is in vain to 
search elsewhere for it, than where nature herself has placed it 
— in the indulgence and gratification of the appetites, which are 
given us for that end : and in a word — if he will not take his 
opinion in the matter — he may trust the word of a much wiser 
man, who has assured us — that there is nothing better in this 
world, than that a man should eat and drink, and rejoice in his 
works, and make his soul enjoy good in his labour — for that is 
his portion. 

To rescue him from this brutal experiment — ambition takes 
him by the hand and carries him into the world— shows him all 
the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them — points out the 
many ways of advancing his fortune and raising himself to 
honour, — lays before his eyes all the charms and bewitching 
temptations of power, and asks if there be any happiness in this 
world like that of being caressed, courted, flattered, and fol- 
lowed ? 

To close all, the philosopher meets him bustling in the full 
career of his pursuit — stops him — tells him, if he is in search of 
happiness, he is gone far out of his way : — that this deity has 
long been banished from noise and tumults, where there was no 
rest found for her, and was fled into solitude far from all com- 
merce of the world ; and, in a word, if he would find her, he 
must leave this busy and intriguing scene, and go back to that 
peaceful scene of retirement and books from which he first set 
out. 

In this circle, too often does a man run, tries all experiments, 
and generally sits down wearied and dissatisfied with them all 



238 LESSONS IN [part II. 

at last — in utter despair of ever accomplishing what he wants — 
not knowing what to trust to, after so many disappointments — 
or where to lay the fault, whether in the incapacity of his own 
nature, or the insufficiency of the enjoyments themselves. 

In this uncertain and perplexed state — without knowing 
which way to turn or where to betake ourselves for refuge — so 
often abused and deceived by the many who pretend thus to 
show us any good — Lord ! says the psalmist, lift up the light of 
thy countenance upon us. — Send us some rays of thy grace and 
heavenly wisdom, in this benighted search after happiness, to 
direct us safely to it. O God ! let us not wander forever with- 
out a guide, in this dark region, in endless pursuit of our mis- 
taken good ; but enlighten our eyes that we sleep not in death — 
open to them the comforts of thy holy word and religion — lift up 
the light of thy countenance upon us, — and make us know the 
joy and satisfaction of living in the true faith and fear of Thee, 
which only can carry us to this haven of rest where we would 
be — that sure haven, where true joys are to be found, which will 
at length not only answer all our expectations — but satisfy the 
most unbounded of our wishes for ever and ever. 

There is hardly any subject more exhausted, or which at one 
time or other has afforded more matter for argument and decla- 
mation, than this one, of the insufficiency of our enjoyments. 
Scarce a reformed sensualist, from Solomon down to our own 
days, who has not, in some fits of repentance or disappointment, 
uttered some sharp reflection upon the emptiness of human plea- 
sure, and of the vanity of vanities which discovers itself in all 
the pursuits of mortal man. But the mischief has been, that, 
though so many good things have been said, they have generally 
had the fate to be considered, either as the overflowings of dis- 
gust from sated appetites which could no longer relish the plea- 
sures of life, or as the declamatory opinions of recluse and sple- 
netic men, who had never tasted them at all, and, consequently, 
were thought no judges of the matter. So that it is no great 
wonder, if the greatest part of such reflections, however just in 
themselves, and founded on truth and a knowledge of the world, 
are found to have little impression where the imagination was 
already heated with great expectations of future happiness; and 
that the best lectures that have been read upon the vanity of the 
world, so seldom stop a man in the pursuit of the object of his 
desire, or give him half the conviction that the possession of it 
will, and what the experience of his own life, or a careful ob- 
servation upon the life of others, does at length generally con- 
firm to us all. 

I would not be understood as if I were denying the reality of 
pleasures, or disputing the being of them, any more than any 
one would the reality of pain — yet I must observe, that there is 



SECT. I.] SPEAKING. 239 

a plain distinction to be made betwixt pleasure and happiness. 
For though there can be no happiness without pleasure — yet the 
reverse of the proposition will not hold true. We are so made, 
that, from the common gratifications of our appetites, and the im- 
pressions of a thousand objects, we snatch the one like a tran- 
sient gleam, without being suffered to taste the other, and enjoy 
the perpetual sunshine and fair weather which constantly attend 
it. This, I contend, is only to be found in religion — in the con- 
sciousness of virtue — and the sure and certain hopes of a better 
life, which brightens all our prospects, and leaves no room to 
dread disappointments — because the expectation of it is built 
upon a rock whose foundations are as deep as those of heaven 
or hell. 

And though, in our pilgrimage through this world — some of 
us may be so fortunate as to meet with some clear fountains by 
the way, that may cool, for a few moments, the heat of this great 
thirst of happiness — yet our Saviour, who knew the world, 
though he enjoyed but little of it, tells us, that whosoever drink- 
eth of this water will thirst again : — and we all find by experi- 
ence it is so, and by reason that it always must be so. 

I conclude with a short observation upon Solomon's evidence 
in this case. 

Never did the busy brain of a lean and hectic chymist search 
for the philosopher's stone with more pains and ardour than this 
great man did after happiness. He was one of the wisest in- 
quirers into nature — had tried all her powers and capacities ; 
and, after a thousand vain speculations and idle experiments, he 
affirmed at length, it lay hid in no one thing he had tried : like 
the chymist's projections, all had ended in smoke, or, what was 
worse, in vanity and vexation of spirit. The conclusion of the 
whole matter was this — that he advises every man who would 
be happy, to fear God and keep his commandments. 

V. — On the Death of Christ. 

The redemption of man is one of the most glorious works of 
the Almighty. If the hour of the creation of the world was great 
and illustrious ; that hour, when, from the dark and formless 
mass, this fair system of nature arose at the Divine command ; 
when " the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God 
shouted for joy;" — no less illustrious is the hour of the restora- 
tion of the world; the hour, when, from condemnation and 
misery, it emerged into happiness and peace. With less exter- 
nal majesty it was attended, but is, on that account, the more 
wonderful, that, under appearance so simple, such great events 
were covered. 

In the hour of Christ's death, the long series of prophecies, 



240 LESSONS IN [PART I. 

visions, types, and figures, was accomplished. This was the 
centre in which they all met ; this the point towards which they 
had tended and verged, throughout the course of so many genera- 
tions. You behold the Law and the Prophets standing, if we 
may so speak, at the foot of the cross, and doing homage. You 
behold Moses and Aaron bearing the ark of the covenant ; David 
and Elijah presenting the oracle of testimony. You behold all 
the priests and sacrifices, all the rites and ordinances, all the 
types and symbols, assembled together to receive their consum- 
mation. Without the death of Christ, the worship and ceremo- 
nies of the law would have remained a pompous but unmeaning 
institution. In the hour when he was crucified, " the book with 
the seven seals" was opened. Every rite assumed its signifi- 
cancy ; every prediction met its event ; every symbol displayed 
its correspondence. 

This was the hour of the abolition of the Law, and the intro- 
duction of the Gospel ; the hour of terminating the old, and of 
beginning the new dispensation of religious knowledge and wor- 
ship throughout the earth. Viewed in this light, it forms the 
most august era which is to be found in the history of mankind. 
When Christ was suffering on the cross, we are informed by one 
of the evangelists, that he said, " I thirst ;" and that they filled a 
sponge with vinegar, and put it to his mouth. " After he had 
tasted the vinegar," knowing that all things were now accom- 
plished, and the scripture fulfilled, he said, " It is finished ;" that 
is, this offered draught of vinegar was the last circumstance pre- 
dicted by an ancient prophet that remained to be fulfilled. The 
vision and the prophecy are now sealed : the Mosaic dispensa- 
tion is closed. "And he bowed his head, and gave up the 
ghost." Significantly was the veil of the temple rent in this 
hour ; for the glory then departed from between the cherubims. 
The legal high priest delivered up his Urim and Thummim, his 
breastplate, his robes, and his incense : and Christ stood forth 
as the great High Priest of all succeeding generations. By that 
one sacrifice which he now offered, he abolished sacrifices for 
ever. Altars on which the fire had blazed for ages were now to 
smoke no more. Victims were no more to bleed. "Not with 
the blood of bulls and goats, but with his own blood, he now en- 
tered into the Holy Place, there to appear in the presence of 
God for us." 

This was the hour of association and union to all the worship- 
pers of God. When Christ said, "It is finished," he threw 
down the wall of partition which had so long divided the Gen- 
tile from the Jew. He gathered into one, all the faithful, out of 
every kindred and people. He proclaimed the hour to be come, 
when the knowledge of the true God should be no longer con- 
fined to one nation, nor his worship to one temple ; but over all 



SECT. I.] SPEAKING. 241 

the earth, the worshippers of the Father should " serve him in 
spirit and in truth." From that hour, they who dwelt in the 
"uttermost ends of the earth, strangers to the covenant of pro- 
mise," began to be "brought nigh." In that hour, the light of 
the gospel dawned from afar on the British islands. 

This was the hour of Christ's triumph over all the powers of 
darkness ; the hour in which he overthrew dominions and 
thrones, " led captivity captive, and gave gifts unto men." The 
contest which the kingdom of darkness had long maintained 
against the kingdom of light, was now brought to its crisis. The 
period was come, when " the seed of the woman should bruise 
the head of the serpent." For many ages, the most gross super- 
stition had filled the earth. " The glory of the incorruptible God 
was," everywhere, except in the land of Judea, " changed into 
images made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and beasts, 
and creeping things." The world, which the Almighty created 
for himself, seemed to have become a temple of idols. Even to 
vices and passions altars were raised ; and what was entitled Re- 
ligion, was, in effect, a discipline of impurity. In the midst of 
this universal darkness, Satan had erected his throne : and the 
learned and polished, as well as the savage nations, bowed down 
before him. But at the hour when Christ appeared on the cross, 
the signal of his defeat was given. His kingdom suddenly de- 
parted from him ; the reign of idolatry passed away : he was 
"beheld to fall like lightning from heaven." In that hour, the 
foundation of every Pagan temple shook ; the statue of every 
false god tottered on its base ; the priest fled from his falling 
shrine ; and the heathen oracles became dumb for ever. 

Death also, the last foe to man, was the victim of this hour. 
The formidable appearance of the spectre remained, but his dart 
was taken away : for in the hour when Christ expiated guilt, he 
disarmed death, by securing the resurrection of the just. When 
he said to his penitent fellow-sufferer, " To-day thou shalt be 
with me in paradise," he announced to all his followers the cer- 
tainty of heavenly bliss. He declared " the cherubims" to be 
dismissed, and the "flaming sword" to be sheathed, which had 
been appointed at the fall " to keep from man the way of the 
Tree of life." Faint, before this period, had been the hope, in- 
distinct the prospect, which even good men enjoyed of the hea- 
venly kingdom. " Life and immortality were now brought to 
light." From the hill of Calvary, the first clear and certain view 
was given to the world, of the everlasting mansions. Since that 
hour, they have been the perpetual consolation of the believers 
in Christ. Under trouble, they soothe their minds ; amidst 
temptations, they support their virtue ; and, in. their dying mo- 
ments, enable them to say, " O death ! where is thy sting ? 
O grave ! where is thv victory ?" 
21 Q 



242 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

SECTION II. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE SENATE. 

I. — Evils of Calumny and War. 

Mr. President : — I rise with reluctance on the present occa- 
sion. The lateness of the hour forbids me to hope for your 
patient attention. The subject is of great importance, as it re- 
lates to other countries, and still greater to our own : yet we 
must decide on grounds uncertain, because they depend on cir- 
cumstances not yet arrived. And when we attempt to pene- 
trate into futurity, after exerting the utmost powers of reason, 
aided by ail the lights which experience could acquire, our 
clearest conceptions are involved in doubt. A thousand things 
may happen which it is impossible to conjecture, and which will 
influence the course of events. The wise Governor of all things 
hath hidden the future from the ken of our understanding. In 
committing ourselves, therefore, to the examination of what may 
hereafter arrive, we hazard reputation on contingencies we can- 
not command. And, when events shall be past, we shall be 
judged by them, and not by the reasons which we may now 
advance. 

There are many subjects which it is not easy to understand, 
but it is always easy to misrepresent; and when arguments 
cannot be controverted, it is not difficult to calumniate motives. 
That which cannot be confuted may be misstated. The purest 
intentions may be blackened by malice ; this calumny is among 
the sore evils of our country. It began with our earliest success 
in '78, and has gone on, with accelerated velocity, and increas- 
ing force, to the present hour. It is no longer to be checked, 
nor will it terminate but in that sweep of general destruction, to 
which it tends with a step as sure as time, and fatal as death. 
I know that what I utter will be misunderstood, misrepresented, 
deformed, and distorted ; but we must do our duty. 

Mr. President, my object is peace ; I could assign many rea- 
sons to show that this declaration is sincere. But can it be 
necessary to give this Senate any other assurance than my word ? 
Notwithstanding the acerbity of temper which results from party 
strife, gentlemen will believe me on my word. I will not pre- 
tend, like my honourable colleague [Mr. Clinton], to describe to 
you the waste, the ravages, and the horrors of war. I have not 
the same harmonious periods, nor the same musical tones ; nei- 
ther shall I boast of Christian charity, nor attempt to display that 
ingenuous glow of benevolence, so decorous to the cheek of 



SECT. II.] SPEAKING. 243 

youth, which gave a vivid tint to every sentence he uttered ; and 
was, if possible, as impressive even as his eloquence. But 
though we possess not the same pomp of words, our hearts are 
not insensible to the woes of humanity. We can feel for the 
misery of plundered towns, the conflagration of defenceless vil- 
lages, and the devastation of cultured fields. Turning from these 
features of general distress, we can enter the abodes of private 
affliction, and behold the widow weeping, as she traces, in the 
pledges of connubial affection, the resemblance of him whom 
she has lost for ever. We see the aged matron bending over 
the ashes of her son. He was her darling ; for he was generous 
and brave, and therefore his spirit led him to the field in defence 
of his country. We can observe another oppressed with unut- 
terable anguish ; condemned to conceal her affection ; forced to 
hide that passion which is at once the torment and delight of life : 
she learns that those eyes which beamed with sentiment are 
closed in death ; and his lip, the ruby harbinger of joy, lies pale 
and cold, the miserable appendage of a mangled corpse. Hard, 
hard indeed, must be that heart which can be insensible to scenes 
like these ; and bold the man who dare present to the Almighty 
Father a conscience crimsoned with the blood of his children ! 

II. — Speech of the Earl of Chesterfield, in the House of Lords, 
February 22, 1740, on the Pension Bill. 

My lords : — It is now so late, and so much has been said in 
favour of the motion for the second reading of the Pension Bill, 
by Lords much abler than I am, that I shall detain you but a 
very short while with what I have to say upon the subject. It 
has been said by a noble Duke, that this bill can be looked on 
only as a bill for preventing a grievance that is foreseen, and not 
as a bill for remedying a grievance that is ahead y felt ; because 
it is not asserted, nor so much as insinuated in the preamble of 
the bill, that any corrupt practices are now made use of for gain- 
ing an undue influence over the other house. My Lords, this 
was the very reason for bringing in the bill. They could not 
assert that any such practices are now made use of, without a 
proof; and the means for coming at this proof is what they 
want, and what they propose to get by this bill. They suspect 
there are such practices, but they cannot prove it. The crime 
is of such a secret nature, that it can very seldom be proved by 
•witnesses, and therefore they want to put it to the trial, at least, 
of being proved by the oath of one of the parties ; which is a 
method often taken in cases that can admit of no other proof. 
This is, therefore, no argument of the grievance not being felt; 
for a man may, very sensibly, feel a grievance, and yet may not 
be able to prove it. 



244 LESSONS IN [part II. 

That there is a suspicion of some such practices being now 
made use of, or that they will soon be made use of, the many- 
remonstrances from all parts of the united kingdoms are a suffi- 
cient proof. That this suspicion has crept into the other House, 
their having so frequently sent up this bill is a manifest demon- 
stration, and a strong argument for its being necessary to have 
some such bill passed into a law. The other House must be 
allowed to be better judges of what passes, or must pass, within 
their own walls, than we can pretend to be. It is evident they 
suspect that corrupt practices have been, or soon may be, made 
use of for gaining an undue influence over some of their mea- 
sures : and they have calculated this bill for curing the evil, if it 
is felt ; for preventing it, if it is only foreseen. That any such 
practices have been actually made use of, or are now made use 
of, is what I shall not pretend to affirm; but I am sure I shall 
not affirm the contrary. If any such are made use of, I will, 
with confidence, vindicate his Majesty. I am sure he knows 
nothing of them. I am sure he will disdain to suffer them : but 
I cannot pass such a compliment upon his ministers, nor upon 
any set of ministers that ever was, or ever will be, in this nation ; 
and, therefore, I think I cannot more faithfully, more effectually, 
serve his present Majesty, as well as his successors, than by 
putting it out of the power of ministers to gain any corrupt influ- 
ence over either House of Parliament. Such an attempt may 
be necessary for the security of the minister, but must always be 
inconsistent with the security of his master: and the more neces- 
sary it is for the minister's security, the more inconsistent it will 
always be with the king's, and the more dangerous to the liber- 
ties of the nation. 

To pretend, my Lords, that this bill diminishes, or any way 
encroaches upon the prerogative, is something very strange. 
What prerogative, my Lords ? Has the crown a prerogative to 
bribe, to infringe the law, by sending its pensioners into the 
other House ? To say so is destroying the credit, the authority 
of the crown, under the pretence of supporting its prerogative. 
If his Majesty knew that any man received a pension from him, 
or any thing like a pension, and yet kept his seat in the other 
House, he would himself declare it, or withdraw his pension, 
because he knows it is against law. This bill, therefore, no way 
diminishes or encroaches upon the prerogative of the crown, 
which can never be exercised but for the public good. It dimi- 
nishes only the prerogative usurped by ministers, which is never 
exercised but for its destruction. The crown may still reward 
merit in the proper way, that is, openly. The bill is intended, 
and can operate only against clandestine rewards, or gratuities, 
given by ministers. These are scandalous, and never were, nor 
will be, given but for scandalous services. 



SECT. II.] SPEAKING. .245 

It is very remarkable, my Lords, it is even diverting, to see 
such a squeamishness about perjury upon this occasion, among 
those who, upon other occasions, have invented and enacted 
multitudes of oaths, to be taken by men who are under great 
temptations, from their private interest, to be guilty of perjury. 
Is not this the case of almost every oath that relates to the collec- 
tion of the public revenue, or to the exercise of any office ? Is 
not this perjury one of the chief objections made by the dissenters 
against the Test and Corporation Act ? And shall we show a 
less concern for the preservation of our constitution, than for the 
preservation of our church ? The reverend bench should be 
cautious of making use of this argument; for if they will not al- 
low us an oath for the preservation of the former, it will induce 
many people to think they ought not to be allowed an oath for 
the preservation of the latter. 

By this time, I hope, my Lords, all the inconveniences pre- 
tended to arise from this bill have vanished ; and therefore I shall 
consider some of the arguments brought to show that it is not 
necessary. Here I must observe, that most of the arguments 
made use of for this purpose, are equally strong for a repeal of 
the laws we have already in being, against admitting pensioners 
to sit and vote in the other House. If it be impossible to sup- 
pose, that a gentleman of great estate and ancient family can, by 
a pension, be influenced to do what he ought not to do ; and if 
we must suppose, that none but such gentlemen can ever get 
into the other House, I am sure the laws for preventing pension- 
ers from having seats in that House are quite unnecessary, and 
ought to be repealed. Therefore, if these arguments prevail 
with your Lordships to put a negative upon the present question, 
I shall expect to see that negative followed by a motion for the 
repeal of those laws ; nay, in a few sessions, I shall expect to see 
a bill brought in, for preventing any man's being a member of 
the other House, but such as have some place or pension under 
the crown. As an argument for such a bill, it might be said, 
that his Majesty's most faithful subjects ought to be chosen mem- 
bers of Parliament, and that those gentlemen will always be most 
faithful to the king, that receive the king's money. I shall grant, 
my Lords, that such gentlemen will be always the most faithful, 
and the most obedient to the minister; but for this very reason, 
I should be for excluding them from Parliament. The king's 
real interest, however much he mav be made by his ministers to 
mistake it, must always be the same with the people's ; but the 
minister's interest is generally distinct from, and often contrary 
to both : therefore T shall always be for excluding as much as 
possible, ft'om Parliament, every man who is under the least in- 
ducement to prefer the interest of the minister to that o r both king 
and people : and this I take to be the case of every g-entieman, 
21* 



246 LESSONS IN [part II. 

let his estate and family be what they will, that holds a pension 
at the will of the minister. 

Those who say they depend so much upon the honour, integ- 
rity, and impartiality of men of family and fortune, seem to think 
our constitution can never be dissolved as long as we have the 
shadow of a Parliament. My opinion, my Lords, is so very dif- 
ferent, that, if ever our constitution be dissolved, if ever an abso- 
lute monarchy be established in this kingdom, I am convinced it 
will be under that shadow. Our constitution consists in the two 
Houses of Parliament being a check upon the crown, as well as 
upon one another. If that check should ever be removed, if the 
crown should, by corrupt means, by places, pensions, and bribes, 
get the absolute direction of our two Houses of Parliament, our 
constitution will, from that moment, be destroyed. There would 
be no occasion for the crown to proceed any farther. It would 
be ridiculous to lay aside the forms of Parliament ; for under that 
shadow our king would be more absolute, and might govern more 
arbitrarily, than he could do without it. A gentleman of family 
and fortune would not, perhaps, for the sake of a pension, agree 
to lay aside the forms of government ; because, by his venal ser- 
vice there, he earns his infamous pension, and could not expect 
the continuance of it, if those forms were laid aside : but a gen- 
tleman of family and fortune may, for the sake of a pension, whilst 
he is in Parliament, approve of the most blundering measures, 
consent to the most excessive and useless grants, enact the most 
oppressive laws, pass the most villanous accounts, acquit the 
most heinous criminals, and condemn the most innocent persons, 
at the desire of that minister who pays him his pension. And, 
if a majority of such House of Parliament consisted of such men, 
would it not be ridiculous in us to talk of our constitution, or to 
say we had any liberty left?' — This misfortune, this terrible 
condition, we may be reduced to by corruption ; as brave, as free 
a people as we, the Romans, were reduced to it by the same 
means; and to prevent such a horrid catastrophe, is the design 
of this bill. 

If people would at all think, if they would consider the conse- 
quences of corruption, there would be no occasion, my Lords, for 
making laws against it. It would appear so horrible, that no 
man would allow it to approach him. The corrupted ought to 
consider, that they do not sell their vote, or their country only : 
these, perhaps, they may disregard ; but they sell likewise them- 
selves : they become the bond-slaves of the corrupter, who cor- 
rupts then, not for their sakes, but for his own. No man ever 
corrupted another for the sake of doing him a service. And 
therefore, if people would but consider, they would always reject 
the offer with disdain. But this is not to be expected. The 
histories of all countries, the history even of our own country, 



SECT. II.] SPEAKING. 247 

shows it is not to be depended on. The proffered bribe, people 
think, will satisfy the immediate craving of some infamous appe- 
tite ; and this makes them swallow the alluring bait, though the 
liberties of their country, the happiness of their prosperity, and 
even their own liberty, evidently depend upon their refusing it. 
This makes it necessary, in every free state, to contrive, if pos- 
sible, effectual laws against corruption : and, as the laws we now 
have for excluding pensioners from the other House are allowed 
to be ineffectual, we ought to make a trial, at least, of the remedy 
now proposed : for though it should prove ineffectual, it will be 
attended with this advantage, that it will put us upon contriving, 
some other remedy that may be effectual; and the sooner such 
a remedy is contrived and applied, the less danger we shall be 
exposed to of falling into that fatal distemper, from which no 
free state, where it has once become general, has ever yet re- 
covered. 

III. — Extract from Mr. ShieVs Speech, in Parliament, on 
Parliamentary Reform. 

It has been urged that the close boroughs have supplied the 
means of admitting men of distinguished abilities, who could not 
otherwise have obtained an access to this House. They were 
represented as the postern gates by which talents, which would 
have been excluded from the legitimate avenues, contrived to get 
in. Was it not probable that if the doors of this House had been 
thrown more widely open, genius and knowledge would have 
found, through the more constitutional entrance, an honourable 
way ? But who were those that pressed round the back doors 
of Parliament? How were the crowd made up? How few 
were the statesmen, the orators, and political economists, com- 
pared with those by whom they were surrounded ! He admitted 
that a splendid catalogue, an emblazoned muster-roll of genius, 
had been produced by the advocates of the Borough system. 
Mark, however, over what a vast space they were dispersed ! 
In how black a firmament they sparkled. But was it not very 
remarkable that so many of these illustrious persons, who were 
cradled in close boroughs, and who preserved their political 
soundness, although they were nursed by corruption, were them- 
selves opposed to the very system to which it was alleged that 
they owed their Parliamentary existence ? What would be said 
of Chatham, Dunning, Pitt, Fox, Sheridan, and so many others ? 
Try this case, not by the vote of the living, but by the votes of 
the dead ; enter the sacred repository within whose echo the 
House deliberated — count the graves of the illustrious men who 
were opposed to Reform, and of those who were its advocates, 
and on that division it would be found that the majority of sepul- 



248 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

chres were in its favour. But even if he were to admit that they 
were against it, and that this House would lose the chances (for 
they are but contingencies) of receiving men like them through 
the medium which is the theme of so much panegyric ; yet what 
would be the loss compared with the certain deprivation of the 
public confidence ? Place in one scale the antique genius of the 
elder Pitt — the extraordinary abilities of his illustrious son — the 
impassioned logic and inspired humanity of Fox — Sheridan's 
wit — Grattan's integrity — the sagacity of Windham — Tier- 
ney's eloquent common sense — and the multifarious endow- 
ments of the accomplished Canning, — and crown the splendid 
accumulation with the surpassing name of Edmund Burke ; and 
after you shall have hoarded and heaped up virtue, patriotism, 
wisdom, and eloquence together, throw in the opposite side, the 
confidence, the affection, the devoted allegiance, the enthusiastic 
sympathy, the entire hearts of millions of the people, and where 
was the man who would for a moment hesitate in determining 
the preponderance ? 

It was alleged that this measure destroyed the influence of the 
aristocracy. How ? There were fifty-five new county mem- 
bers. From what class were they likely to be selected ? Would 
they seek to build their fortunes out of the ruins of their country ? 

Members were to be criven to lar^e towns. Would their inhab- 
it o 

itants show no regard to opulence, to hereditary dignity, to ancient 
neighbourhood ; and instead of looking for representatives amidst 
noble demesnes and venerable halls, would they accept every 
wandering knight-errant of sedition, and itinerant visionary in 
codification ? There was a singular variance between the logic 
of the nonreformers and their sarcasms. They spoke of Tavistock 
with emphatic signification. They meant that the influence of 
the house of Bedford would continue. If so, why should not the 
influence of other great families continue elsewhere ? Thus their 
syllogisms were overthrown by their satire, and their argument 
evaporates in their vituperation. This bill would not wrench 
their despotism from the oligarchy — it would not touch the le- 
gitimate influence of property, and birth, and station, and all the 
other circumstances which create a title to respect. It would 
take power from individuals, and give it to a class. It would cut 
off the secret and subterraneous conduit pipes, through which 
aristocratic influence is now conveyed to this House, and would 
make it flow in a broad, open, constitutional, and national channel. 
Away with the charge that it would weaken the Monarchy. 
The throne would be built on the confidence of the people, and 
find new pillars in the nobility ; and so for from the crown being 
loosened on the head of the king, the diadem would be fastened 
by another band on the Rofal brow. They should not forget the 
principles which they themselves applied to Catholic Emancipa- 



SECT. II.] SPEAKING. 249 

tion. There were many obstacles in the way of emancipation ; 
a large proportion of the Irish Protestants, much of the property 
and intelligence of that country, and the deep but honest and 
conscientious, and therefore the more formidable, prejudices of 
the English people. Compare these obstructions with those that 
stand against reform. What were they ? Where were the pe- 
titions against it ? Who were its opponents ? They might be 
counted. Who are its advocates? Millions of Britons, with 
their Sovereign at their head ! If they had listened to the voice 
of Ireland, would they be deaf to the English invocation ? If 
Ireland had force enough in her arm when she struck at the door 
of the Cabinet to make the mighty captain start, was the land of 
England so feeble and so powerless that they would not awaken 
at the thunder of her knocking. If Ireland was now in a state 
of evil susceptibility, the House should recollect that it was their 
own doing. 

These were the results of years of agitation, produced by the 
madness of delay. Let them beware how they put England 
through a similar process of excitement. What ! would they 
wait till all England should have been organized ? Would they 
tarry until a great confederacy should have sprung up ? Would 
they abide until the rostra of agitation should have been raised 
in every district 1 Would they procrastinate until the popular 
passions should have been maddened by ferocious eloquence, 
and infuriated by revolutionary harangue ? Then, indeed, they 
would have cause to speak of the influence of the democracy ; — 
then they would find the demands of the nation swollen into 
perilous enormity; — then they would behold the power of the 
people dilated beyond its just, and natural, and constitutional 
proportions, and ascending into a gigantic magnitude. Concede ; 
and that they might concede in safety, concede in time. 

IV.- — Extract from Patrick Henry' 's Speech on the Ex- 
pediency of adopting the Federal Constitution. 

I am constrained to make a few remarks on the absurdity of 
adopting this system, and relying on the chance of getting it 
amended afterwards. When it is confessed to be replete with 
defects, is it not offering to insult your understandings, to attempt 
to reason you out of the propriety of rejecting it, till it be amend- 
ed ? Does it not insult your judgments to tell you — adopt first, 
and then amend ? Is your rage for novelty so great, that you 
are first to sign and seal, and then to retract ? Is it possible to 
conceive a greater solecism ? I am at a loss what to say. You 
agree to bind yourselves hand and foot — for the sake of what ? 
Of being unbound. You go into a dungeon — for what? To 
get out. Is there no danger when you go in, that the bolts of 



250 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

federal authority shall shut you in ? Human nature never will 
part from power. Look for an example of a voluntary relinquish- 
ment of power, from one end of the globe to another — you will 
find none. Nine-tenths of our fellow men have been, and are 
now depressed by the most intolerable slavery, in the different 
parts of the world, because the strong hand of power has bolted 
them in the dungeon of despotism. Review the present situation 
of the nations of Europe, which is pretended to be the freest 
quarter of the globe. Cast your eyes on the countries called free 
there. Look at the country from which we are descended, I be- 
seech you ; and although we are separated by everlasting, insu- 
perable partitions, yet there are some virtuous people there, who 
are friends to human nature and liberty. Look at Britain ; see 
there the bolts and bars of power; see bribery and corruption 
defiling the fairest fabric that ever human nature reared. Can a 
gentleman, who is an Englishman, or who is acquainted with the 
English history, desire to prove these evils? See the efforts of 
a man descended from a friend of America; see theefTorts of 
that man, assisted even by the king, to make reforms. But you 
find the faults too strong to be amended. Nothing but bloody 
war can alter them. See Ireland : that country groaned from 
century to century, without getting their government amended. 
Previous adoption was the fashion there. They sent for amend- 
ments from time to time, but never obtained them, though pressed 
by the severest oppression, till eighty thousand volunteers de- 
manded them sword in hand — till the power of Britain was 
prostrate ; when the American resistance was crowned with suc- 
cess. Shall we do so ? If you judge by the experience of Ire- 
land, you must obtain the amendments as early as possible. But, 
I ask you again, where is the example that a government was 
amended by those who instituted it ? Where is the instance of 
the errors of a government rectified by those who adopted them? 

V. — Lord Mansfield's Speech, in the House of Lords, 1770, 
on the Bill for the further preventing the delays of Justice, 
by reason of Privilege of Parliament. 

My lords : — When I consider the importance of this bill to 
your Lordships, I am not surprised it has taken up so much of 
your consideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no common magni- 
tude : it is not less than to take away from two-thirds of the 
legislative body of this great kingdom, certain privileges and im- 
munities of which they have long been possessed. Perhaps there 
is no situation the human mind can be placed in, that is so diffi- 
cult and so trying, as when it is made a judge in its own cause. 
There is something implanted in the breast of man so attached 
to self, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, thai, in such a 



SECT. II.] SPEAKING. 251 

situation, either to discuss with impartiality, or decide with jus- 
tice, has ever been held as the summit of all human virtue. The 
bill now in question puts your Lordships in this very predica- 
ment ; and I doubt not but the wisdom of your decision will con- 
vince the world, that where self-interest and justice are in oppo- 
site scales, the latter will ever preponderate with your Lordships. 
Privileges have been granted to legislators in all ages, and in 
all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom : and, indeed, 
it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of this country, that 
the members of both Houses should be free in their persons in 
cases of civil suits ; for there may come a time when the safet}' 
and welfare of this whole empire may depend upon their attend- 
ance in Parliament. God forbid that I should advise any measure 
that would in future endanger the state: but the bill before your 
Lordships has, I am confident, no such tendency; for it expressly 
secures the persons of members of either House in all civil suits. 
This being the case, I confess when I see many noble Lords, for 
whose judgments I have a very great respect, standing up to op- 
pose a bill which is calculated merely to facilitate the recovery 
of just and legal debts, I am astonished and amazed. They, I 
doubt not, oppose the bill upon public principles : I would not 
wish to insinuate, that private interest had the least weight in 
their determination. 

This bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequently mis- 
carried ; but it was always lost in the lower House. Little did 
I think, when it had passed the Commons, that it possibly could 
have met with such opposition here. Shall it be said that you, 
my Lords, the grand council of the nation, the highest judicial 
and legislative body of the realm, endeavour to evade, by privi- 
lege, those very laws which you enforce on your fellow-subjects ? 
Forbid it, justice ! — I am sure were the noble Lords as well ac- 
quainted as I am with but half the difficulties and delays occa- 
sioned in the courts of justice, under pretence of privilege, they, 
would not, nay they could not, oppose this bill. 

I have waited with patience to hear what arguments might be 
urged against the bill, but I have waited in vain ; the truth is, 
there is no argument that can weigh against it. The justice and 
expediency of the bill are such as render it self-evident. It is a 
proposition of that nature, that can neither be weakened by 
argument, nor entangled with sophistry. Much, indeed, has 
been said by some noble Lords on the wisdom of our ancestors, 
and how differently they thought from us. They not only de- 
creed, that privilege should prevent all civil suits from proceed- 
ing during the sitting of Parliament, but likewise granted pro- 
tection to the very servants of members. I shall say nothing on 
the wisdom of our ancestors ; it might perhaps appear invidious ; 
that is not necessary in the present case. I shall only say, that 



252 LESSONS IN [part II. 

the noble Lords who flatter themselves with the weight of that 
reflection, should remember, that as circumstances alter, things 
themselves should alter. Formerly, it was not so fashionable 
either for masters or servants to run in debt as it is at present. 
Formerly, we were not that great commercial nation we are at 
present ; nor formerly were merchants and manufacturers mem- 
bers of Parliament, as at present. The case now is very dif- 
ferent ; both merchants and manufacturers are, with great pro- 
priety, elected members of the Lower House. Commerce 
having thus got into the legislative body of the kingdom, privi- 
lege must be done away. We all know, that the very soul and 
essence of trade are regular payments ; and sad experience 
teaches us, that there are men who will not make their regular 
payments without the compulsive power of the law. The law, 
then, ought to be equally open to all : any exemption of par- 
ticular men, or particular ranks of men, is, in a free and com- 
mercial country, a solecism of the grossest nature. 

But I will not trouble your Lordships with arguments for that 
which is sufficiently evident without any. I shall only say a 
few words to some noble Lords, who foresee much inconveniency 
from the persons of their servants being liable to be arrested. 
One noble Lord observes, that the coachman of a peer may be 
arrested while he is driving his master to the House, and, con- 
sequently, he will not be able to attend to his duty in Parliament. 
If this were actually to happen, there are so many methods by 
which the member might still get to the House, that I can hardly 
think the noble Lord is serious in his objection. Another noble 
Peer said, That by this bill one might lose their most valuable 
and honest servants. This I hold to be a contradiction in terms ; 
for he can neither be a valuable servant, nor an honest man, who 
gets into debt which he is neither able nor willing to pay, till 
compelled by law. If my servant, by unforeseen accidents, has 
got into debt, and I still wish to retain him, I certainly would 
pay the debt. But upon no principle of liberal legislation what- 
ever, can my servant have a title to set his creditors at defiance, 
while, for forty shillings only, the honest tradesman may be torn 
from his family, and locked up in a gaol. It is a monstrous in- 
justice ! I flatter myself, however, the determination of this day 
will entirely put an end to all such partial proceedings for the 
future, by passing into a law the bill now under your Lordships' 
consideration. 

I come now to speak upon what, indeed, I would have gladly 
avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at for the part I 
have taken in this bill. It has been said by a noble Lord on my 
left hand, that I likewise am running the race of popularity. If 
the noble Lord means by popularity, that applause bestowed by 



SECT. II.] SPEAKING. 253 

after-ages on good and virtuous actions, I have long been strag- 
gling in that race ; to what purpose, all-trying time can alone 
determine ; but if the noble Lord means that mushroom popu- 
larity that is raised without merit, and lost without a crime, he 
is much mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noble Lord to point 
out a single action of my life, where the popularity of the times 
ever had the smallest influence on my determinations. I thank 
God I have a more permanent and steady rule for my conduct, — 
the dictates of my own breast. Those that have foregone that 
pleasing adviser, and given up the mind to be the slave of every 
popular impulse, I sincerely pity : I pity them still more, if their 
vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob for the trumpet 
of fame. Experience might inform them, that many who have 
been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one day, have received 
their execrations the next ; and many who, by the popularity of 
their times, have been held up as spotless patriots, have, never- 
theless, appeared upon the historian's page, when truth has tri- 
umphed over delusion, the assassins of liberty. Why, then, the 
noble Lord can think I am ambitious of present popularity, that 
echo of folly, and shadow of renown, I am at a loss to determine. 
Besides, I do not know that the bill now before your Lordships 
will be popular ; it depends much upon the caprice of the day. 
It may not be popular to compel people to pay their debts ; and 
in that case, the present must be a very unpopular bill. It may 
not be popular neither to take away any of the privileges of Par- 
liament ; for I very well remember, and many of your Lordships 
may remember, that not long ago the popular cry was for the 
extension of privilege ; and so far did they carry it at that time, 
that it was said that the privilege protected members even in. 
criminal actions ; nay, such was the power of popular prejudices 
over weak minds, that the very decisions of some of the courts 
were tinctured with that doctrine. It was undoubtedly an 
abominable doctrine ; I thought so then, and think so still : but, 
nevertheless, it was a popular doctrine, and came immediately 
from those who are called the friends of liberty ; how deservedly, 
time will show. True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist 
when justice is equally administered to all ; to the king, and to 
the beggar. Where is the justice, then, or where is the law, 
that protects a member of Parliament more than any other man, 
from the punishment due to his crimes ? The laws of this coun- 
try allow of no place, nor any employment, to be a sanctuary for 
crimes ; and where I have the honour to sit as judge, neither 
royal favour nor popular applause shall ever protect the guilty. 

I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much 
of your Lordships' time ; and I am sorry a bill, fraught with so 
many good consequences, has not met with an abler advocate ; 
22 



254 LESSONS IN [part II. 

but I doubt not your Lordships' determination will convince the 
world, that a bill calculated to contribute so much to the equal 
distribution of justice as the present, requires, with your Lord- 
ships, but very little support. 

VI. — The Peroration of Mr. Governeur Morris's Speech 
on the Judiciary Establishment. 

Some, indeed, flatter themselves that our destiny will be like 
that of Rome. Such, indeed, it might be, if we had the same 
wise, but vile aristocracy, under whose guidance they became the 
masters of the world. But we have not that strong aristocratic 
arm which can seize a wretched citizen, scourged almost to death 
by a remorseless creditor, turn him into the ranks, and bid him, 
as a soldier, bear our eagle in triumph round the globe ! I hope 
to God we shall never have such an abominable institution. But 
what, I ask, will be the situation of these states, (organized as 
they now are,) if, by the dissolution of our national compact, 
they be left to themselves ? What is the probable result ? We 
shall either be the victims of foreign intrigue, and split into fac- 
tions, fall under the domination of a foreign power; or else, after 
the misery and torment of a civil war, become the subjects of an 
usurping military despot. What but this compact, what but this 
specific part of it, can save us from ruin? The judicial power, 
that fortress of the constitution, is now to be overturned. Yes, 
with honest Ajax, I would not only throw a shield before it, I 
would build around it a wall of brass. But I am too weak to 
defend the rampart against the host of assailants. I must call to 
my assistance their good sense, their patriotism, and their virtue. 
Do not, gentlemen, suffer the rage of passion to drive reason 
from her seat. If this law be indeed bad, let us join to remedy 
the defects. Has it been passed in a manner which wounded 
your pride, or roused your resentment? Have, I conjure you, 
the magnanimity to pardon that offence. I entreat, I implore 
you, to sacrifice those angry passions to the interests of our 
country. Pour out this pride of opinion on the altar of patriotism. 
Let it be an expiating libation for the weal of America. Do 
not, for God's sake, do not suffer that pride to plunge us all into 
the abyss of ruin. Indeed, indeed, it will be but of little, very 
little avail, whether one opinion or the other be right or wrong ; 
it will heal no wounds, it will pay no debts, it will rebuild no 
ravaged towns. Do not rely on that popular will which has 
brought us frail beings into political existence. That opinion is 
but a changeable thing. It will soon change. This very mea- 
sure will change it. You will be deceived. Do not, I beseech 
you, in a reliance on a foundation so frail, commit the dignity, 
the harmony, the existence of our nation to the wild wind. 



SECT. II.] SPEAKING. 255 

Trust not your treasure to the waves. Throw not your compass 
and your charts into the ocean. Do. not believe that its billows 
will waft you into port. Indeed, indeed, you will be deceived. 
Cast not away this only anchor of our safety. I have seen its 
progress. I know the difficulties through which it was obtained. 
I stand in the presence of Almighty God, and of the world ; and 
I declare to you, that if you lose this charter, never! no, never 
will you get another ! We are now, perhaps, arrived at the 
parting point. Here, even here, we stand on the brink of fate. 
Pause — pause — for Heaven's sake, pause ! 

VII. — John Randolph' 's Speech on the Bight of Suffrage. 

Mr. Chairman : — These will be deemed, I fear, unconnected 
thoughts ; but they have been the aliment of my mind for 
years. Rumination and digestion can do no more ; they are 
thoroughly concocted. 

In the course of not a short or uneventful life, I have had cor- 
respondence with various persons in all parts of the Union, and 
I have seen gentlemen on their return from the North and East, 
as well as from the new states of the West, and I never heard 
from any of them, but one expression of opinion as it related to 
us in Virginia. It was in the sentiment, if not in the language 
of Virgil: "Oh, fortunate, if we knew our own blessedness." 
They advise us, with one voice, " Stick to what you have got ; 
stick to your Constitution ; stick to your right of suffrage. Don't 
give up your freehold representation. We have seen enough 
of the opposite system, and too much." I have received and seen 
letters breathing this spirit from men who dare not promulgate 
such a sentiment at home, because it would destroy their 
hopes of usefulness — from North Carolina, from South Carolina, 
from Georgia, from Alabama, from Pennsylvania, and from New 
York. 

Sir, the day, come when it may, which sees this old and 
venerable fabric of ours scattered in ruins, and the mattock and 
the spade digging the foundation for a new political edifice, will 
be a day of jubilee to all those who have been, and who must 
be, in conflict with those principles which have given to Virginia 
her weight and consequence, both at home and abroad. If I 
understand aright the plans which are in agitation, I had sooner 
the day should arrive that must close my eyes forever, than wit- 
ness their accomplishment. Yes, Sir, to this constitution we 
owe all that we have preserved (much, I know, is lost and of 
great value), but all that we have preserved from the wreck of 
our political fortunes. This is the mother which has reared all 
our great men. Well may she be called magna mater virum. 
She has, indeed, produced men, and mighty men. 



256 LESSONS IN [part II. 

VIII. — Power to be valued only as it Confers Benefits on 
Mankind. 

Whether I have the support of ministers or not, to the House 
I look, with confident expectation, that it will control them, and 
assist me. If I go too far, checking my progress ; if too fast, 
abating my speed ; but heartily and honestly helping me in the 
best and the greatest work which the hands of the lawgiver can 
undertake. The course is clear before us ; the race is glorious 
to run. You have the power of sending your name down 
through all times, illustrated by deeds of higher fame and more 
useful import, than ever were done within these walls. You 
saw the greatest warrior of the age — the conqueror of Italy — the 
humbler of Germany — the terror of the North — account all his 
matchless victories poor, compared with the triumph you are 
now in a condition to win — saw him contemn the fickleness of 
fortune, while, despite of her, he could pronounce his memorable 
boast — ' I shall go down to posterity with the code in my band.' 
You have vanquished him in the field ; strive now to rival him 
in the sacred arts of peace. Outstrip him as a lawgiver, whom 
in arms you overcame ! The glories of the regency will be 
eclipsed by the more solid and enduring splendour of the reign. 
The praise, which fawning courtiers feigned for our Edwards 
and Harry, the Justinians of their day, will be the just tribute 
of the wise and good, to that monarch under whose sway so 
mighty a work shall be accomplished. Of a truth, sceptres are 
most chiefly to be envied, for that they bestow the power of thus 
conquering, and ruling thus. It was the boast of Augustus — it 
formed part of the lustre in which the perfidies of his earlier 
years were lost — that he found Rome of brick, and left it of 
marble ; a praise not unworthy a great prince, and to which the 
present reign is not without claims. But how much nobler will 
be our Sovereign's boast, when he shall have it to say, that he 
found law dear, and left it cheap — found it a sealed book, left it 
a living letter — found it the patrimony of the rich, left it the in- 
heritance of the .poor — found it the two-edged sword of craft and 
oppression, left it the staff of honesty, and the shield of inno- 
cence. To me, much reflecting on these things, it has always 
seemed a worthier honour to be the instrument of making you 
bestir yourselves in this high matter, than to enjoy all that office 
can bestow — office, of which the patronage would be an irksome 
incumbrance, the emoluments superfluous to one who had rather, 
with the rest of his industrious fellow-citizens, make his own 
hands minister to his own wants ; and as for the power supposed 
lo follow it, I have lived half a century, and I have seen that 
power and place may be severed. But one power I do prize, 



SECT. III.] SPEAKING. 257 

that of being the advocate of my countrymen here, and their 
fellow-labourer elsewhere, in those things which concern the 
best interests of mankind. That power I know full well no 
government can give — no change can take away. 



SECTION III. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 

I. — Mr. Currarfs Defence of Orr. 

Let me suppose that you had seen him (Orr) removed from 
his industry, and confined in a gaol ; that, through the slow and 
lingering progress of twelve tedious months, you had seen him, 
confined in a dungeon, shut out from the common air and the 
use of his own limbs ; that, day after day, you had marked the 
unhappy captive cheered by no sound but the cries of his 
family, or the clinking of chains ; that you had seen him at last 
brought to his trial ; that you had seen the vile and perjured in- 
former deposing against his life ; that you had seen the drunken, 
and worn out, and terrified jury give in a verdict of death ; that 
you had seen the same jury, when their returning sobriety had 
brought back their consciences, prostrate themselves before the 
humanity of the Bench, and pray that the mercy of the Crown 
might save their characters from the reproach of an involuntary 
crime, their consciences from the torture of eternal self-condem- 
nation, and their souls from the indelible stain of innocent blood. 
Let me suppose that you had seen the respite given, and that 
contrite and honest recommendation transmitted to that seat 
where mercy was presumed to dwell ; that new, and before 
unheard of, crimes are discovered against the informer ; that the 
royal mercy seems to relent, and that a new respite is sent to the 
prisoner ; that time is taken, as the learned counsel for the crown 
has expressed it, to see whether mercy could be extended or not ! 
that after that period of lingering deliberation passed, a third 
respite is transmitted ; that the unhappy captive himself feels 
the cheering hope of being restored to a family that he had 
adored, to a character that he had never stained, and to a 
country that he had ever loved ; that you had seen his wife and 
children upon their knees, giving those tears to gratitude which 
their locked and frozen hearts could not give to anguish and 
despair, and imploring the blessings of eternal Providence upon 
his head, who had graciously spared the father, and restored 
him to his children ; that you had seen the olive branch sent 
into his little ark, but no sign that the waters had subsided. — 
22* r 



258 LESSONS IN [part II. 

"Alas! nor wife nor children more shall he behold, nor friends, 
nor sacred home !" No seraph mercy unbars his dungeon, and 
leads him forth to light and life ; but the minister of death hur- 
ries him to the scene of suffering and of shame, — where, un- 
moved by the hostile array of artillery and armed men collected 
together, to secure, or to insult, or to disturb him, he dies with a 
solemn declaration of his innocence, and utters his last breath 
in a prayer for the liberty of his country. Let me now ask you, 
if any of you had addressed the public ear upon so foul and 
monstrous a subject, in what language would you have conveyed 
the feelings of horror and indignation 1 Would you have stooped 
to the meanness of qualified complaint ? Would you have been 
mean enough ? — But I entreat your forgiveness. I do not think 
meanly of you : had I thought so meanly of you, I could not 
have suffered my mind to commune with you as it has done ; 
had I thought you that base and vile instrument, attuned by 
hope and by fear into discord and falsehood, from whose vulgar 
string no groan of suffering could vibrate, no voice of integrity or 
honour could speak, — let me honestly tell you, I should have 
scorned to fling my hand across it ; — I should have left it to a 
fitter minstrel. 

II. — Political Geometry. 

Let me tell the reverend gentleman from Brooke, (for, among 
the fallacies of the day, is his attempted application of analogies 
drawn from the exact sciences to that of government,) to whom 
we are indebted for the reference of the forty-seventh proposition 
of Euclid's first book, that geometry, whether superficial or solid, 
furnishes but a poor guide, when we would measure the force, 
ascertain the value, and fix the relations of moral and political 
quantities. 

Under the guidance of a fallacious analogy, the gentleman 
thinks it would be wise to set out with certain a priori princi- 
ples, certain postulata and axiomata, and then to keep ourselves 
within the exact parallel lines which these guides shall prescribe 
to us. Let me tell that gentleman, that for the construction of 
political and moral theorems, there are no postulata, which give 
him a straight line, that may be indefinitely extended ; no defi- 
nition of a point, without length or breadth ; no axiom which 
allows that a given number of integers combined, is of the same 
value as the like number, indicated by summing up separate and 
detached integers. All these guides will fail him, and he will 
find himself betrayed into the most desperate and fatal errors, by 
submitting himself to their absolute sway. Proceeding on his 
straight line, he will go on, linking consequence to consequence, 
and induction to induction, to an almost interminable extent ; like 



SECT. III.] SPEAKING. 259 

Jacob's ladder, which led from earth to heaven — only, that this, 
I fear, takes the opposite direction. 

The gentleman from Brooke (the reverend gentleman from 
Brooke) tells us, that those who do not choose to pass all the 
way on his straight line (though they may think it leads to the 
hell of anarchy, not to the heaven of peace) are wholly unphi- 
losophical, and are acting in direct opposition to all the established 
principles of political gravity. I fear this analogy from the doc- 
trine of gravity is more close than that from his mathematics. 
I fear the downward tendency of his scheme is so strong, as to 
put in requisition all the wisdom, prudence, and firmness, here 
assembled, to arrest its career, and even that, that may be una- 
vailing. 

III. — The Statesman. 

I said I should endeavour to prove, from the concessions of 
gentlemen directly, or by clear implication, that the epithets em- 
ployed by some of them were gratuitously assumed. In order 
to do so, let us fix the expression of this paramount and all-im- 
portant principle of theirs, and see how it works in the hands of 
those who attempt to fetter us with it. Let us give it, if not the 
precision, at least the terseness of a mathematical proposition, 
and throw it into a syllogistic form. All men are by nature 
equal: ergo, all men, when in society, should enjoy equal por- 
tions of political power. This is not strictly in the syllogistic 
form. It wants the minor proposition, and is what the logicians 
call an enthymem. 

If, as gentlemen contend, this be the sole and all-sufficient 
principle in the construction of all just government, then my first 
remark is, that the world, from the time of Solon till now, has 
been under a great mistake. It has been the idle prejudice of 
civilized man, every where, to suppose that a Statesman is con- 
stituted, not by the conception of a theme, which is within the 
comprehension of a school-boy in his first form, but that it re- 
quired the exercise of the higher faculties of the human mind. 
It has been thought till now, that an able. Statesman ivas the 
product of labour ; of sagacious and widely extended observa- 
tion ; of deep research ; of clear induction from the treasures 
of experience; of power to bring within the grasp the whole 
horizon of human affairs ; and laborious exercise of that power. 
But this, it seems, has been a mere prejudice ; it must have been 
so, if gentlemen are correct in maintaining, that the whole busi- 
ness of a Statesman is to understand and apply their propositions; 
and that, if he deviate in the slightest degree from them, he sacri- 
fices that, without which, he must lose all his force — I mean the 
name of a Republican: a cabalistic word brandished by the 



260 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

demagogue at the hustings, and made to work with magic force 
in the columns of the public prints. Without this, whatever his 
wisdom or his virtue, he is ostracised from public trust — the 
channels of public service are closed against him. Sir, this is a 
new patent mode of making a Statesman ; a sort of labour-saving 
machinery, in which Statesmen are made with the celerity that 
nails are struck in a factory, and requiring intellect of no higher 
order to construct governments, than that which computes the 
weight of the iron, or the number of nails into which it is fabri- 
cated. This is the first consequence which follows from attempt- 
ing to give simplicity to political science, and this alone is 
enough to ensure its condemnation. To attempt to provide for 
all the diversified interests of a mature people by such a proposi- 
tion, is the height of political madness. 

IV. — Cicero against Verves. 

The time is come, Fathers, when that which has long been 
wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has been sub- 
ject to, and removing the imputations against trials, is effectually 
put in your power. An opinion has long prevailed, not only 
here at home, but likewise in foreign countries, both dangerous 
to you and pernicious to the state — that in prosecutions, men of 
wealth are always safe, however clearly convicted. There is 
now to be brought upon this trial before you, to the confusion, I 
hope, of the propagators of this slanderous imputation, one whose 
life and actions condemn him in the opinion of all impartial per- 
sons : but who, according to his own reckoning and declared 
dependance upon his riches, is already acquitted ; I mean Caius 
Verres. I demand justice of you, Fathers, upon the robber of 
the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor and Pamphy- 
lia, the invader of the rights and privileges of Romans, the 
scourge and curse of Sicily. If that sentence is passed upon 
him which his crimes deserve, your authority, Fathers, will be 
venerable and sacred in the eyes of the public ; but if his great 
riches should bias you in his favour, I shall still gain one point 
— to make it apparent to all the world, that what was wanting in 
this case, was not a criminal nor a prosecutor, but justice and 
adequate punishment. 

To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what 
does his qurcstorship, the first public employment he held, what 
does it exhibit, but one continued scene of villanies ? Cneius 
Carbo plundered of the public money by his own treasurer, a 
consul stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to 
want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people 
violated. The employment he held in Asia Minor and Pam- 
phylia, what did it produce but the ruin of those countries? — in 



SECT. III.] SPEAKING. 261 

which houses, cities, and temples, were robbed by him. What 
was his conduct in his praetorship here at home ? Let the plun- 
dered temples, and public works neglected (that he might em- 
bezzle the money intended for carrying them on), bear witness. 
How did he discharge the office of a judge ? Let those who 
suffered by his injustice answer. But his praetorship in Sicily 
crowns all his works of wickedness, and finishes a lasting monu- 
ment to his infamy. The mischiefs done by him in that un- 
happy country, during the three years of his iniquitous adminis- 
tration, are such, that many years, under the wisest and best of 
praetors, will not be sufficient to restore things to the condition in 
which he found them ; for it is notorious, that, during the time 
of his tyranny, the Sicilians neither enjoyed the protection of 
their own original laws, or the regulations made for their benefit 
by the Roman senate upon their coming under the protection of 
the commonwealth, nor of the natural and unalienable rights of 
men. His nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these three 
years : and his decisions have broke all law, all precedent, all 
right. The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard-of im- 
positions, extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be com- 
puted. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth have been 
treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put 
to death with tortures. The most atrocious criminals, for money, 
have been exempted from the deserved punishments : and men 
of the most unexceptionable characters condemned and banished 
unheard. The harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the 
gates of strong towns, opened to pirates and ravagers. The sol- 
diery and sailors, belonging to a province under the protection 
of the commonwealth, starved to death. Whole fleets, to the 
great detriment of the province, suffered to perish. The ancient 
monuments of either Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statues of 
heroes and princes carried off; and the temples stripped of their 
images. Having by his iniquitous sentences, filled the prisons 
with the most industrious and deserving of the people, he then 
proceeded to order numbers of Roman citizens to be strangled in 
the gaols ; so that the exclamation, "I am a citizen of Rome !" 
which has often, in the most distant regions, and among the most 
barbarous people, been a protection, was of no service to them ; 
but, on the contrary, brought a speedier and more severe punish- 
ment upon them. 

I ask now, Verres, what you have to advance against this 
charge ? W'ill you pretend to deny it? Will you pretend, that 
any thing false, that even any thing aggravated, is alleged 
against you ? Had any prince, or any state, committed the same 
outrage against the privilege of Roman citizens, should we not 
think we had sufficient ground for declaring immediate war 
against them ? What punishment ought then to be inflicted upon 



262 LESSONS IN [part II. 

u tyrannical and wicked praetor, who dared, at no greater dis- 
tance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the 
infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citi- 
zen, Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted his 
privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appealing to 
the justice of his country, against a cruel oppressor, who had 
unjustly confined him in a prison, at Syracuse, whence he had 
just made his escape? The unhappy man, arrested as he was 
going to embark for his native country, is brought before the 
wicked praetor. With eyes darting fury, and a countenance dis- 
torted with cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage to 
be stripped, and rods to be brought; accusing him, but without 
the least shadow of evidence, or even suspicion, of having come 
to Sicily as a spy. It was in vain that the unhappy man cried 
out, " I am a Roman citizen : I have served under Lucius Pre- 
tius, who is now at Panormus, and will attest my innocence." 
The blood-thirsty praetor, deaf to all he could urge in his own 
defence, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflicted. Thus, 
Fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly mangled with 
scourging; whilst the only words he uttered amidst his cruel 
sufferings were, " I am a Roman citizen !" With these he 
hoped to defend himself from violence and infamy. But of so 
little service was this privilege to him, that, while he was thus 
asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his execution — 
for his execution upon the cross. 

liberty ! O sound, once delightful to every Roman ear ! — 
O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! — once sacred! — now 
trampled upon ! — but what then ! — Is it come to this? Shall an 
inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole power of 
the Roman people, in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, 
bind, scourge, torture with fire, and red-hot plates of iron, and at 
last put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen ? 
Shall neither the cries of innocence, expiring in agony, nor the 
tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman com- 
monwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the 
licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who in confidence 
of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty, and sets mankind at 
defiance ? 

1 conclude with expressing my hopes, that your wisdom and 
justice, Fathers, will not, by suffering the atrocious and unex- 
ampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape the due punishment, 
leave room to apprehend the danger of a total subversion of au- 
thority, and introduction of general anarchy and confusion. 



SECT. III.] SPEAKING. 263 



V. — The Peroration of Mr. Wirfs Speech in behalf of the 
Cherokee Nation. 

' It is with no ordinary feelings that I am about to take leave 
of this cause. The existence of this remnant of a once great 
and mighty nation is at stake, and it is for your honours to say, 
whether they shall be blotted out from the creation, in utter dis- 
regard of all our treaties. They are here in the last extremity, 
and with them must perish for ever the honour of the American 
name. The faith of our nation is fatally linked with their exist- 
ence, and the blow which destroys them quenches for ever our 
own glory : for what glory can there be of which a patriot can 
be proud, after the good name of his country shall have departed ? 
We may gather laurels on the field and trophies on the ocean, 
but they will never hide this foul and bloody blot upon our 
escutcheon. " Remember the Cherokee nation !" will be answer 
enough to the proudest boast that we can ever make — answer 
enough to cover with confusion the face and the heart of every 
man among us, in whose bosom the last spark of grace has not 
been extinguished. Such, it is possible, there may be, who are 
willing to glory in their own shame, and to triumph in the dis- 
grace which they are permitted to heap upon this nation. But, 
thank Heaven, they are comparatively few. The great majority 
of the American people see this subject in its true light. They 
have hearts of flesh in their bosoms, instead of hearts of stone, 
and every rising and setting sun witnesses the smoke of the in- 
cense from the thousands and tens of thousands of domestic 
altars, ascending to the throne of grace to invoke its guidance 
and blessing on your counsels. The most undoubting confidence 
is reposed in this tribunal. 

We know that whatever can be properly done for this unfor- 
tunate people, will be done by this honourable court. Their 
cause is one that must come home to every honest and feeling 
heart. They have been true and faithful to us, and have a right 
to expect a corresponding fidelity on our part. Through a long 
course of years they have followed our counsel with the docility 
of children. Our wish has been their law. We asked them to 
become civilized, and they became so. They assumed our dress, 
copied our names, pursued our course of education, adopted our 
form of government, embraced our religion, and have been 
proud to imitate us in every thing in their power. They have 
watched the progress of our prosperity with the strongest in- 
terest, and have marked the rising grandeur of our nation with 
as much pride as if they had belonged to us. They have even 
adopted our resentments, and in our w^ar with the Seminole 
tribes, they voluntarily joined our arms, and gave effectual aid 



2G4 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

in driving back those barbarians from the very state that now 
oppresses them. They threw upon the field in that war a body 
of men who proved, by their martial bearing, their descent from 
the noble race that were once the lords of these extensive forests 
— men worthy to associate with the " lion," who, in their own 
language, " walks upon the mountain-tops." They fought side 
by side with our present chief-magistrate, and received his re- 
peated thanks for their gallantry and conduct. 

May it please your honours, they have refused to us no grati- 
fication which it has been in their power to grant. We asked 
them for a portion of their lands, and they ceded it. We asked 
them again and again, and they continued to cede until they 
have now reduced themselves within the narrowest compass that 
their own subsistence will permit. What return are we about 
to make to them for all this kindness ? We have pledged, for 
their protection and for the guarantee of the remainder of their 
lands, the faith and honour of our nation ; a faith and honour 
never sullied, nor even drawn into question until now. We 
promised them, and they trusted us. They have trusted us. 
Shall they be deceived ? They would as soon expect to see 
their rivers run upwards on their sources, or the sun roll back in 
his career, as that the United States would prove false to them, 
and false to the word so solemnly pledged by their Washington, 
and renewed and perpetuated by his illustrious successors. 

Is this the high mark to which the American nation has been 
so strenuously and successfully pressing forward ? Shall we 
sell the mighty meed of our high honours at so worthless a price, 
and in two short years cancel all the glory which we have been 
gaining before the world for the last half-century ? Forbid it, 
Heaven ! 

I will hope for better things. There is a spirit that will yet 
save us. I trust that we shall find it here, in this sacred court ; 
where no foul and malignant demon of party enters to darken 
the understanding, or to deaden the heart, but where ail is clear, 
calm, pure, vital and firm. I cannot believe that this honourable 
court, possessing the power of preservation, will stand by and 
see these people stripped of their property, and extirpated from 
the earth, while they are holding up to us their treaties, and claim- 
ing the fulfilment of our engagements. If truth, and faith, and 
honour, and justice, have fled from every other part of our coun- 
try, we shall find them here. If not, our sun has gone down in 
treachery, blood, and crime, in the face of the world ; and, in- 
stead of being proud of our country, as heretofore, we may well 
call upon the rocks and mountains to hide our shame from earth 
and heaven. 



SECT. III.] SPEAKING. 265 

VI. — Cicero for Milo. 

My Lords : — That you may be able the more easily to 
determine upon this point before you, I shall beg the favour of 
an attentive hearing, while, in a few words, I lay open the whole 
affair. Clodius being determined, when created praetor, to 
harass his country with every species of oppression, and finding 
the comitia had been delayed so long the year before, that he 
could not hold this office many months, all on a sudden threw 
up his own year, and reserved himself to the next ; not from 
any religious scruple, but that he might have, as he said himself, 
a full, entire year for exercising his praetorship ; that is, for over- 
turning the commonwealth. Being sensible he must be con- 
trolled and cramped in the exercise of his prsetorian authority 
under Milo, who, he plainly saw, would be chosen consul by the 
unanimous consent of the Roman people, he joined the candi- 
dates that opposed Milo, — but in such a manner that he over- 
ruled them in every thing, had the sole management of the 
election, and, as he used often to boast, bore all -the comitia upon 
his own shoulders. He assembled the tribes ; he thrust himself 
into their counsels ; and formed a new tribe of the most aban- 
doned of the citizens. The more confusion and disturbance he 
made, the more Milo prevailed. When this wretch, who was 
bent upon all manner of wickedness, saw that so brave a man, 
and his most inveterate enemy, would certainly be consul ; when 
he perceived this, not only by the discourses but by the votes of 
the Roman people, he began to throw off all disguise, and to de- 
clare openly that Milo must be killed. He often intimated this 
in the Senate, and declared it expressly before the people ; inso- 
much that when Favonius, that brave man, asked him what 
prospect he could have of carrying on his furious designs while 
Milo was alive, he replied, that in three or four days at most, he 
should be taken out of the way ; which reply Favonius immedi- 
ately communicated to Cato. 

In the mean time, as soon as Clodius knew (nor, indeed, was 
there any difficulty to come at the intelligence,) that Milo was 
obliged, by the 18th of January, to be at Lanuvium, where he 
was dictator, in order to nominate a priest, a duty w'hich the laws 
rendered necessary to be performed every year ; he went sud- 
denly from Rome the day before, in order, as appears by the 
event, to waylay Milo, on his own grounds ; and this at a time 
when he was obliged to leave a tumultuous assembly which he 
had summoned that very day, where his presence was necessary 
to carry on his mad designs ; a thing he never would have done, 
if he had not been desirous to take the advantage of that parti- 
cular time and place for perpetrating his villany. But Milo, 
after having staid in the Senate that day till the house was broke 
23 



266 LESSONS IN [part II. 

up, went home, changed his clothes, waited awhile, as usual, 
till his wife had got ready to attend him, and then set forward, 
about the time that Clodius, if he had proposed to come back to 
Rome that day, might have returned. He meets Clodius near 
his own estate, a little before sunset, and is immediately attacked 
by a body of men, who throw their darts at him from an emi- 
nence, and killed his coachman. Upon which he threw off his 
cloak, leaped from his chariot, and defended himself with great 
bravery. In the mean time, Clodius' attendants drawing their 
swords, some of them ran back to the chariot, in order to attack 
Milo in the rear; whilst others, thinking that he was already 
killed, fell upon his servants who were behind ; these being 
resolute, and faithful to their master, were some of them slain ; 
whilst the rest seeing a warm engagement near the chariot, 
being prevented from going to their master's assistance, hearing 
besides from Clodius himself that Milo was killed, and believing 
it to be a fact, acted upon this occasion (I mention it not with a 
view to elude the accusation, but because it was the true state 
of the case) without the orders, without the knowledge, without 
the presence of their master, as every man would wish his own 
servants should act in the like circumstances. 

This, my Lords, is a faithful account of the matter of fact ; 
the person who Jay in wait was himself overcome, and force 
subdued by force, or rather audaciousness chastised by true 
valour. I say nothing of the advantage which accrues to the 
state in general, to yourselves in particular, and to all good men : 

I am content to waive the argument I might draw from hence in 
favour of my client, whose destiny was so peculiar, that he could 
not secure his own safety without securing yours, and that of the 
republic, at the same time. If he could not do it lawfully, there 
is no room for attempting his defence. But, if reason teaches 
the learned, necessity the barbarian, common custom all nations 
in general, and even nature itself instructs the brutes to defend 
their bodies, limbs and lives when attacked, by all possible 
methods, you cannot pronounce this action criminal, without 
determining, at the same time, that whoever falls into the hands 
of a highwayman must of necessity perish, either by the sword, 
or your decision. Had Milo been of this opinion, he would cer- 
tainly have chosen to have fallen by the hand of Clodius, who 
had more than once before this made an attempt upon his life, 
rather than be executed by your order, because he had not 
tamely yielded himself a victim to his rage. But if none of you 
are of this opinion, the proper question is, not whether Clodius 
was killed ; for that we grant: but whether justly or unjustly. 

II it appear that Milo was the aggressor, we ask no favour ; but 
if Clodius, you will then acquit him of the crime that has been 
laid to his charge. 



SECT. III.] SPEAKING. 267 

What method, then, can we take, to prove that Clodius lay in 
wait for Milo? It is sufficient, considering what an audacious 
abandoned wretch he was, to show that he lay under a strong 
temptation to it, that he formed great hopes, and proposed to 
himself great advantages, from Milo's death. By Milo's death, 
Clodius would not only have gained his point of being praetor, 
without that restraint which his adversary's power, as consul, 
would have laid upon his wicked designs, but likewise that of 
being praetor under those consuls, by whose connivance, at least, 
if not assistance, he hoped he should be able to betray the state 
into the mad schemes he had been forming; persuading himself, 
that, as they thought themselves under so great an obligation to 
him, they would have no inclination to oppose any of his at- 
tempts, even if they should have it in their power ; and that, if 
they were inclined to do it, they would, perhaps, be scarce able 
to control the most profligate of all men, who had been confirmed 
and hardened in his audaciousness, by a long series of villanies. 

Milo is so far from receiving any benefit from Clodius' death, 
that he is really a sufferer by it. But it may be said, that hatred 
prevailed, that anger and resentment urged him on, that he 
avenged his own wrongs, and redressed his own grievances. 
Now, if all these particulars may be applied, not merely with 
greater propriety to Clodius than to Milo, but with the utmost 
propriety to the one, and not the least to the other ; what more 
can you desire ? For why should Milo bear any other hatred to 
Clodius, who furnished him with such a rich harvest of glory, 
but that which every patriot must bear to all bad men ? As to 
Clodius, he had motives enough for bearing ill will to Milo; 
first, as my protector and guardian ; then, as the opposer of his 
mad schemes, and the controller of his armed force ; and, lastly, 
as his accuser. 

Every circumstance, my Lords, concurs to prove, that it was 
for Milo's interest, Clodius should live; that, on the contrary, 
Milo's death was a most desirable event for answering the pur- 
poses of Clodius ; that, on the one side, there was a most impla- 
cable hatred ; on the other, not the least ; that the one had been 
continually employing himself in acts of violence, the other only 
in opposing them; that the life of Milo was threatened, and his 
death publicly foretold by Clodius ; whereas nothing of that kind 
was ever heard from Milo ; that the day fixed for Milo's journey 
was well known by his adversary ; while Milo knew not when 
Clodius was to return; that Milo's journey was necessary, but 
that of Clodius rather the contrary ; that the one openly declared 
his intention of leaving Rome that day, while the other concealed 
his intention of returning; that Milo made no alteration in his 
measures, but that Clodius feigned an excuse for altering his ; 
that if Milo had designed to waylay Clodius, he would have 



268 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

waited for him near the city, till it was dark : but that Clodius, 
even if he had been under no apprehensions from Milo, ought to 
have been afraid of coming to town so late at night. 

Let us now consider, whether the place where they encoun- 
tered was most favourable to Milo or to Clodius. But "can there, 
my Lords, be any room for doubt or deliberation upon that? It 
was near the estate of Clodius, where at least a thousand able- 
bodied men were employed in his mad schemes of building. Did 
Milo think he should have an advantage by attacking him from 
an eminence, and did he, for this reason, pitch upon that spot 
for the engagement ; or, was he not rather expected in that place 
by his adversary, who hoped the situation w T ould favour his as- 
sault ? The thing, my Lords, speaks for itself, which must be 
allowed to be of the greatest importance in determining the ques- 
tion. Were the affair to be represented only by painting, instead 
of being expressed by words, it would even then clearly appear 
which was the traitor, and which was free from all mischievous 
designs ; when the one was sitting in his chariot, muffled up in 
his cloak, and his wife along with him. Which of these circum- 
stances was not a very great encumbrance ? — the dress, the cha- 
riot, or the companion ? How could he be worse equipped for 
an engagement, when he was wrapped up in a cloak, embarrassed 
with a chariot, and almost fettered by his wife ? Observe the 
other, now, in the first place, sallying out on a sudden from his 
seat : For what reason ? In the evening, what urged him ? late, 
to what purpose, especially at that season ? He calls at Pompey's 
seat : With what view ? To see Pompey ? He knew he was 
at Alsium : To see his house ? He had been at it a thousand 
times. What, then, could be the reason of his loitering and 
shifting about? He wanted to be upon the spot when Milo 
came up. 

But if, my Lords, you are not yet convinced, though the thing 
shines out with such strong and full evidence, that Milo returned 
to Rome with an innocent mind, unstained with guilt, undisturbed 
by fear, and free from the accusations of conscience ; call to mind, 
I beseech you, by the immortal gods, the expedition with which 
he came back, his entrance into the forum while the senate house 
was in flames, the greatness of soul he discovered, the look he 
assumed, the speech he made on the occasion. He delivered 
himself up, not only to the people, but even to the senate; nor 
to the senate alone, but even to guards appointed for the public 
security : nor merely to them, but even to the authority of him 
whom the senate had intrusted with the care of the whole re- 
public ; to whom he never would have delivered himself, if he 
had not been confident of the goodness of his cause. 

What now remains, but to beseech and adjure you, my Lords, 
to extend that compassion to a brave man, which he disdains to 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 269 

implore, but which I, even against his consent, implore and 
earnestly entreat. Though you have not seen him shed a single 
tear, while all are weeping around him, though he has preserved 
the same steady countenance, the same firmness of voice and 
language, do not, on this account, withhold it from him. 

On you, on you I call, ye heroes, who have lost so much blood 
in the service of your country ! To you, ye centurions, ye sol- 
diers, I appeal, in this hour of danger to the best of men, and 
bravest of citizens ! While you are looking on, while you stand 
here with arms in your hands, and guard this tribunal, shall 
virtue like this be expelled, exterminated, cast out with dishon- 
our ? By the immortal gods, I wish (pardon me, O my country '. 
for I fear, what I shall say, out of a pious regard for Milo, may 
be deemed impiety against thee) that Clodius not only lived, but 
were praetor, consul, dictator, rather than be witness to such a 
scene as this. Shall this man, then, who was born to save his 
country, die anywhere but in his country? Shall he not, at 
least, die in the service of his country ? Will you retain the 
memorials of his gallant soul, and deny his body a grave in Italy 1 
Will any person give his voice for banishing a man from this 
city, whom every city on earth would be proud to receive 
within its walls ? Happy the country that shall receive him ! 
Ungrateful this, if it shall banish him ! Wretched, if it should 
lose him ! But I must conclude — my tears will not allow me 
to proceed, and Milo forbids tears to be employed in his defence. 
You, my Lords, I beseech and adjure, that, in your decision, 
you would dare to act as you think. Trust me, your fortitude, 
your justice, your fidelity, will more especially be approved of 
by him, (Pompey) who, in his choice of judges, has raised to 
the bench, the bravest, the wisest, and the best of men. 



SECTION IV 



SPEECHES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 

I. — Romulus to the People of Borne, after building the City. 

If all the strength of cities lay in the height of their ramparts, 
or the depth of their ditches, we should have great reason to be 
in fear for that which we have now built. But are there in 
reality any walls loo high to be scaled by a valiant enemy? And 
of what use are ramparts in intestine divisions ? They may serve 
for a defence against sudden incursions from abroad ; but it is by 
courage and prudence, chiefly, that the invasions of foreign ene- 
mies are repelled ; and bv unanimity, sobriety, and iustice. that 
23* 



270 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

domestic seditions are prevented. Cities fortified by the strongest 
bulwarks, have been often seen to yield to force from without, or 
to tumults from within. An exact military discipline, and a 
steady observance of civil polity, are the surest barriers against 
these evils. 

But there is still another point of great importance to be con- 
sidered. The prosperity of some rising colonies, and the speedy 
ruin of others, have, in a great measure, been owing to their 
form of government. Were there but one manner of ruling states 
and cities, that could make them happy, the choice would not be 
difficult. But I have learnt, that, of the various forms of govern- 
ment among the Greeks and Barbarians, there are three which 
are highly extolled by those who have experienced them ; and 
yet, that no one of these is in all respects perfect, but each of 
them has some innate and incurable defect. Choose you, then, 
in what manner this city shall be governed. Shall it be by one 
man ? Shall it be by a select number of the wisest among us ? Or 
shall the legislative power be in the people ? As for me, I shall 
submit to whatever form of administration you shall please to 
establish. As I think myself not unworthy to command, so 
neither am I unwilling to obey. Your having chosen me to be 
the leader of this colony, and your calling the city after my name, 
are honours sufficient to content me ; honours of which, living 
or dead, I can never be deprived. 

II. — Hannibal to Scipio Africanus, at their interview pre- 
ceding the Battle of Zama. 

Since fate has so ordained it, that I, who began the war, and 
who have been so often on the point of ending it by a complete 
conquest, should now come of my own motion to ask a peace — 
I am glad that it is of you, Scipio, I have the fortune to ask it. 
Nor will this be among the least of your glories, that Hannibal, 
victorious over so many Roman generals, submitted at last to 
you. 

I could wish that our fathers and we had confined our ambi- 
tion within the limits which nature seems to have prescribed to 
it ; the shores of Africa, and the shores of Italy. The gods did 
not give us that mind. On both sides we have been so eager 
after foreign possessions, as to put our own to the hazard of war. 
Rome and Carthage have had, each in her turn, the enemy at 
her gates. But since errors past may be more easily blamed 
than corrected, let it now be the work of you and me to put an 
end, if possible, to the obstinate contention. For my own part, 
my years, and the experience I have had of the instability of 
fortune, incline me to leave nothing to her determination which 
reason can decide. But much I fear, Scipio, that your youth, 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 271 

your want of the like experience, your uninterrupted success, 
may render you averse from the thoughts of peace. He whom 
fortune has never failed, rarely reflects upon her inconstancy. 
Yet, without recurring to former examples, my own may per- 
haps suffice to teach you moderation. T am the same Hannibal 
who, after my victory at Cannee, became master of the greatest 
part of your country, and deliberated with myself what fate I 
should decree to Italy and Rome. And now — see the change ! 
Here, in Africa, I am come to treat with a Roman for my own 
preservation and my country's. Such are the sports of fortune. 
Is she, then, to be trusted because she smiles ? An advantageous 
peace is preferable to the hope of victory. The one is in your 
own power, the other is at the pleasure of the gods. Should you 
prove victorious, it would add little to your own glory, or the 
glory of your country ; if vanquished, you lose in one hour all 
the honour and reputation you have been so many years ac- 
quiring. But what is my aim in all this? That you should 
content yourself with our cession of Spain, Sicily, Sardinia, and 
all the islands between Italy and Africa. A peace on these con- 
ditions will, in my opinion, not only secure the future tranquillity 
of Carthage, but be sufficiently glorious for you, and for the 
Roman name. And do not tell me that some of our citizens 
dealt fraudulently with you in the late treaty. It is I, Hannibal, 
that now ask a peace : — I ask it, because I think it expedient for 
my country ; and thinking it expedient, I will inviolably main- 
tain it. 

III. — Scipio's Reply. 

I knew very well, Hannibal, that it was the hope of your re- 
turn which emboldened the Carthaginians to break the truce with 
us, and to lay aside all thoughts of peace, when it was just upon 
the point of being concluded ; and your present proposal is a 
proof of it. You retrench from their concessions, every thing 
but what we are, and have been long possessed of. But as it is 
your care that your fellow-citizens should have the obligation to 
you of being eased from a great part of their burthen, so it ought 
to be mine that they draw no advantage from their perfidiousness. 
Nobody is more sensible than I am of the weakness of man, and 
the power of fortune, and that whatever we enterprise, is subject 
to a thousand chances. If, before the Romans passed into Africa, 
jrou had, of your own accord, quitted Italy, and made the offers 
you now make, I believe they would not have been rejected. 
But, as you have been forced out of Italy, and we are masters 
here of the open country, the situation of things is much altered. 
And what is chiefly to be considered, the Carthaginians, by the 
late treaty, which we entered into at their request, were, over and 



272 LESSONS IN [part II. 

above what you offer, to have restored to us our prisoners with- 
out ransom, delivered up their ships of war, paid us five thousand 
talents, and to have given hostages for the performance of all. 
The senate accepted these conditions, but Carthage failed on her 
part: Carthage deceived us. What, then, is to be done? Are 
the Carthaginians to be released from the most important articles 
of the treaty, as a reward for their breach of faith ? No, cer- 
tainly. If, to the conditions before agreed upon, you had added 
some new articles, to our advantage, there would have been 
matter of reference to the Roman people ; but when, instead of 
adding, you retrench, there is no room for deliberation. The 
Carthaginians, therefore, must submit to us at discretion, or must 
vanquish us in battle. 

IV. — Attachment of the Indians to the Soil. 

Sir, the Indians are attached to the soil ; it is their own ; and 
though, by your subtilties of state logic, you make it out that it 
is not their own, they think it is; they love it as their own. It 
is the seat of their council fires, not always illegal, as your State 
laws now call them. The time has been, and that not very dis- 
tant, when, had the king of France, or of Spain, or of England, 
talked of its being illegal for the Choctaws or Cherokees to meet 
at their council fire, they would have answered, "Come and pre- 
vent us." It is the soil in which are gathered the bones of their 
fathers. This idea, and the importance attached to it by the 
Indians, has been held up to derision by one of the officers of the 
government. He has told the Indians that "the bones of their 
fathers cannot benefit them, stay where they are as long as they 
may." I touch with regret on that upon which the gentleman 
from New York has laid his heavy hand. I have no unkind 
feeling towards the gentleman who has unadvisedly made this 
suggestion. But the truth is, this is the very point on which the 
Indian race — sensitive on all points — is most peculiarly alive. 
It is proverbial. Governors Cass and Clark, in their official 
report the last winter, tell you, that " We will not sell the spot 
which contains the bones of our fathers," is almost always the 
first answer to a proposition for a sale. The mysterious mounds 
which are seen in different parts of the country, the places of 
sepulture for tribes that have disappeared, are objects of reve- 
rence to the remnants of such tribes as long as any such remain. 

Dr. Jefferson, in his Notes on Virginia, tells you of such a case. 
Unknown Indians came through the country, by a path known 
to themselves, through the woods, to visit a mound in his neigh- 
bourhood. Who they were, no one knew, nor whence they 
came, nor what was the tribe to whose ashes they had made 
their pilgrimage. It is well known that there are tribes who 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 273 

celebrate the great feast of the dead — an awful, but affecting 
commemoration. They gather up the bones of all who have 
died since the last return of the festival, cleanse them from their 
impurities, collect them in a new deposit, and cover them again 
with the sod. Shall we, in the complacency of our superior 
light, look without indulgence on the pious weakness of these 
children of nature ? Shall we tell them that the bones of their 
fathers, which they visit after the lapse of ages, which they 
cherish, though clothed in corruption, can do them no good ? It 
is as false in philosophy as in taste. The man who reverences 
the ashes of his fathers — who hopes that posterity will reverence 
his — is bound by one more tie to the discharge of social duty. 

V. — Importance of the Union. 

I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in 
view the prosperity and honour of the whole country, and the 
preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union we owe 
our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. 
It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever 
makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached 
only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe school of ad- 
versity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, 
prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influ- 
ence, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, 
and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its dura- 
tion has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings ; 
and, although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, 
and our population spread farther and farther, they have not out- 
run its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious 
fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not 
allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might 
lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed 
the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us 
together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself 
to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my 
short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could 
I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this Govern- 
ment, whose thought should be mainly bent on considering, not 
how the Union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might 
be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and 
destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gra- 
tifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. 
Beyond that, I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, 
in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant that 
on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When 
my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in 

s 



274 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dis- 
honoured fragments of a once glorious Union ; on States dis- 
severed, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, 
or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood ! Let their last feeble 
and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous Ensign of the 
Republic, now known and honoured throughout the earth, still 
full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their 
original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star 
obscured — bearing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory 
as, What is all this worth? Nor those other words of delusion 
and folly, Liberty first, and Union afterwards — but everywhere, 
spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its 
ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in 
every wind under the whole Heavens, that other sentiment, dear 
to every true American heart — Liberty and Union, now and for 
ever, one and inseparable ! 

VI. — Calisthenes f Reproof of aeon's Flattery to Alexander, 
on whom he had proposed to confer Divinity, by vote. 

If the king were present, Cleon, there would be no need of 
my answering to what you have just proposed. He would him- 
self reprove you, for endeavouring to draw him into an imitation 
of foreign absurdities, and for bringing envy upon him by such 
unmanly flattery. As he. is absent, I take upon me to tell you, 
in his name, that no praise is lasting, but what is rational ; and 
that you do what you can to lessen his glory, instead of adding 
to it. Heroes have never, among us, been deified till after their 
death ; and whatever may be your way of thinking, Cleon, for 
my part, I wish the king may not, for many years to come, ob- 
tain that honour. 

You have mentioned, as precedents of what you propose, 
Hercules and Bacchus. Do you imagine, Cleon, that they were 
deified over a cup of wine ? And are you and I qualified to 
make gods? Is the king, our sovereign, to receive his divinity 
from you and me, who are his subjects? First try your power, 
whether you can make a king. It is surely easier to make a 
king, than a god; to give an earthly dominion, than a throne in 
heaven. I only wish that the gods may have heard, without 
ofFence, the arrogant proposal you have made, of adding one to 
their number, and that they may still be so propitious to us, as to 
grant the continuance of that success to our affairs, with which 
they have hitherto favoured us. For my part, I am not ashamed 
of my country, nor do I approve of our adopting the rites of 
foreign nations, or learning from them how we ought to reve- 
rence our kings. To receive laws or rules of conduct from them, 
what is it but to confess ourselves inferior to them ? 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 275 



VIT. — Caius Marius to the Romans ; showing the absurdity 
of their hesitating to confer on him the rank of General, 
merely on account of his extraction. 

It is but too common, my countrymen, to observe a material 
difference between the behaviour of those who stand candidates 
for places of power and trust, before and after their obtaining 
them. They solicit them in one manner, and execute them in 
another. They set out with a great appearance of activity, hu- 
mility, and moderation, and they quickly fall into sloth, pride, 
and avarice. It is, undoubtedly, no easy matter to discharge, to 
the general satisfaction, the duty of a supreme commander, in 
troublesome times. To carry on with effect an expensive war, 
and yet be frugal of public money ; to oblige those to serve whom 
it may be delicate to offend; to conduct, at the same time, a com- 
plicated variety of operations ; to concert measures at home, an- 
swerable to the state of things abroad ; and to gain every valuable 
end, in spite of opposition from the envious, the factious, and the 
disaffected — to do all this, my countrymen, is more difficult than 
is generally thought. 

But, besides the disadvantages which are common to me, with 
all others in eminent stations, my case is, in this respect, pecu- 
liarly hard — that whereas a commander of Patrician rank; if he 
is guilty of neglect or breach of duty, has his great connexions, the 
antiquity of his family, the important services of his ancestors, 
and the multitudes he has, by power, engaged in his interest, to 
screen him from condign punishment, my whole safety depends 
upon myself; which renders it the more indispensably necessary 
for me to take care that my conduct be clear and unexceptionable. 
Besides, I am well aware, my countrymen, that the eye of the 
public is upon me ; and that, though the impartial, who prefer 
the real advantage of the commonwealth to all other considera- 
tions, favour my pretensions, the Patricians want nothing so 
much as an occasion against me. It is, therefore, my fixed 
resolution to use my best endeavours, that you be not disap- 
pointed in me, and that their indirect designs against me may be 
defeated. 

I have from my youth, been familiar with toils and with dan- 
gers. I was faithful to your interest, my countrymen, when I 
served you for no reward but that of honour. It is not my de- 
sign to betray you, now that you have conferred upon me a 
place of profit. You have committed to my conduct the war 
against Jugurtha. The Patricians are offended at this. But 
where would be the wisdom of giving such a command to one 
of their honourable body 1 A person of illustrious birth, of 
ancient family, of innumerable statues — but of no experience ! 



276 LESSONS IN [part II. 

What service would this long line of dead ancestors, or his mul- 
titude of motionless statues, do his country in the day of battle ? 
What could such a general do, but, in his trepidation and inexpe- 
rience, have recourse to some inferior commander for direction, 
in difficulties to which he was not himself equal? Thus, your 
Patrician general would, in fact, have a general over him ; so 
that the acting commander would still be a Plebeian. So true is 
this, my countrymen, that I have, myself, known those who 
have been chosen consuls, begin then to read the history of their 
own country, of which, till that time, they were totally ignorant ; 
that is, they first obtained the employment, and then bethought 
themselves of the qualifications necessary for the proper dis- 
charge of it. 

I submit to your judgment, Romans, on which side the advan- 
tage lies, when a comparison is made between Patrician haughti- 
ness and Plebeian experience. The very actions which they 
have only read, I have partly seen and partly myself achieved. 
W T hat they know by reading, I know by action. They are 
pleased to slight my mean birth : I despise their mean charac- 
ters. Want of birth and fortune is the objection against me ; 
want of personal worth against them. But are not all men of 
the same species ? What can make a difference between one 
man and another, but the endowments of the mind ? For my 
part, I shall always look upon the bravest man, as the noblest 
man. Suppose it were inquired of the fathers of such Patricians 
as Albinus and Bestia, whether, if they had their choice, they 
would desire sons of their character or of mine : what would 
they answer, but that they would wish the worthiest to be their 
sons ? If the Patricians have reason to despise me, let them 
likewise despise their ancestors, whose nobility was the fruit of 
their virtue. Do they envy the honours bestowed upon me ? let 
them envy, likewise, my labours, my abstinence, and the dangers 
I have undergone for my country, by which I have acquired 
them. But those worthless men lead such a life of inactivity, as 
if they despised any honours you can bestow ; whilst they 
aspire to honours as if they had deserved them by the most 
industrious virtue. They lay claim to the rewards of activity, 
for their having enjoyed the pleasures of luxury. Yet none can 
be more lavish than they are in praise of their ancestors. And 
they imagine they honour themselves by celebrating their fore- 
fathers ; whereas they do the very contrary ; for, as much as 
their ancestors were distinguished for their virtues, so much are 
they disgraced by their vices. The glory of ancestors casts a 
light, indeed, upon their posterity ; but it only serves to show 
what the descendants are. It alike exhibits to public view, their 
degeneracy and their worth. I own, I cannot boast of the deeds 
of my forefathers ; but i hope I may answer the cavils of the 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 277 

Patricians, by standing up in defence of what I have myself 
done. 

Observe now, my countrymen, the injustice of the Patricians. 
They arrogate to themselves honours, on account of the exploits 
done by their forefathers, whilst they will not allow me the due 
praise for performing the very same sort of actions in my own 
person. He has no statues, they cry, of his family. He can 
trace no venerable line of ancestors. What then ? Is it matter 
of more praise to disgrace one's illustrious ancestors, than to be- 
come illustrious by one's own good behaviour? What if I can 
show no statues of my family ! I can show the standards, the 
armour, and the trappings, which I have myself taken from the 
vanquished : I can show the scars of those wounds which I have 
received by facing the enemies of my country. These are my 
statues. These are the honours f boast of. Not left me by in- 
heritance, as theirs ; but earned by toil, by abstinence, by valour; 
amidst clouds of dust and seas of blood ; scenes of action, where 
those effeminate Patricians, who endeavour, by indirect means, 
to depreciate me in your esteem, have never dared to show T their 
faces. 

VIII. — Speech of Publius Scipio to the Roman Jlrmy, before 
the Battle of Ticin. 

Were you, Soldiers, the same army which I had with me in 
Gaul, I might well forbear saying any thing to you at this time : 
for what occasion could there be to use exhortation to a cavalry 
that had so signally vanquished the squadrons of the enemy 
upon the Rhone ; or to legions, by whom that same enemy, fly- 
ing before them to avoid a battle, did, in effect, confess themselves 
conquered ? But as these troops, having been enrolled for 
Spain, are there with my brother Cneius, making war under my 
auspices, (as was the will of the senate and people of Rome,) I, 
that you might have a consul for your captain against Hannibal 
and the Carthaginians, have freely offered myself for this war. . 
You, then, have a new general, and I a new army. On this 
account, a few words from me to you will be neither improper 
nor unseasonable. 

That you may not be unapprised of what sort of enemies you 
are going to encounter, or what is to be feared from them, they 
are the very same, whom, in a former war, you vanquished both 
by land and sea ; the same from whom you took Sicily and Sar- 
dinia, and who have been these twenty years your tributaries. 
You will not, T presume, march against these men with only that 
courage with which you are wont to face other enemies : but 
with a certain anger and indignation, such as you would feel if 
you saw your slaves on a sudden rise up in arms against you. 
24 



278 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Conquered and enslaved, it is not boldness, but necessity, that 
urges them to battle ; unless you could believe that those who 
avoided fighting when their army was entire, have acquired better 
hope by the loss of two-thirds of their horse and foot in the pas- 
sage of the Alps. 

But you have heard, perhaps, that though they are few in 
number, they are men of stout hearts and robust bodies : heroes 
of such strength and vigour, as nothing is able to resist — mere 
effigies ! Nay, shadows of men ; wretches emaciated with 
hunger, and benumbed with cold ! bruised and battered to pieces 
among the rocks and craggy cliffs ! — their weapons broken, and 
their horses weak and foundered! Such are the cavalry, and 
such the infantry with which you are going to contend ; not ene- 
mies, but the fragments of enemies. There is nothing which I 
more apprehend, than that it will be thought Hannibal was van- 
quished by the Alps, before we had any conflict with him : but 
perhaps it was fitting it should be so; and that, with a people 
and a leader who had violated leagues and covenants, the gods 
themselves, without man's help, should begin the war, and 
bring it to a near conclusion ; and that we, who, next to the 
gods, have been injured* and offended, should happily finish what 
they have begun. 4 

I need not be in any fear, that you should suspect me of say- 
ing these things merely to encourage you, while inwardly I 
have a different sentiment. What hindered me from going into 
Spain ? That was my province, where I should have had the 
less dreaded Asdrubal, not Hannibal, to deal with. But hearing, 
as I passed along the coast of Gaul, of this enemy's march, I 
landed my troops, sent my horse forward, and pitched my camp 
upon the Rhone. A part of my cavalry encountered and de- 
feated that of the enemy. My infantry not being able to over- 
take theirs, which fled before us, I returned to my fleet ; and 
with all the expedition I could use in so long a voyage by sea 
and land, am come to meet them at the foot of the Alps. Was 
it, then, my inclination to avoid a contest with this tremendous 
Hannibal? and have I met with him only by accident and una- 
wares? or am I come on purpose to challenge him to the com- 
bat ? I would gladly try, whether the earth, within these twenty 
years, has brought forth a new kind of Carthaginians; or whether 
they be the same sort of men who fought at the iEgates, and 
whom, at Eryx, you suffered to redeem themselves at eighteen 
denarii per head : whether this Hannibal, for labours and jour- 
neys, be, as he would be thought, the rival of Hercules; or 
whether he be, what his father left him, a tributary, a vassal, a 
slave to the Roman people. Did not the consciousness of his 
wicked deed at Saguntum torment him and make him desperate, 
he would have some regard, if not to his conquered country, yet 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 279 

surely to his own family, to his father's memory, to the treaty 
written with Amilcar's own hand. We might have starved him 
in Eryx ; we might have passed into Africa with our victorious 
fleet, and in a few days, have destroyed Carthage. At their 
humble supplication, we pardoned them ; we released them, 
when they were closely shut up without a possibility of escaping; 
we made peace with them when they were conquered. When 
they were distressed by the African war, we considered them, 
we treated them us a people under our protection. And what 
is the return they make us for all these favours? Under the 
conduct of a hair-brained young man, they come hither to over- 
turn our state, and lay waste our country. I could wish, indeed, 
that it were not so ; and that the war we are now engaged in, 
concerned only our own glory, and not our preservation. But 
the contest, at present, is not for the possession of Sicily and 
Sardinia, but of Italy itself: nor is there behind us another army, 
which, if we should not prove the conquerors, may make head 
against our victorious enemies. There are no more Alps for 
them to pass, which might give us leisure to raise new forces. 
No, Soldiers ; here you must make your stand, as if you were 
just now before the walls of Rome. J^et every one reflect, that 
he has now to defend, not only his own person, but his wife, his 
children, his helpless infants. Yet, let not private considerations 
alone possess our minds : let us remember that the eyes of the 
senate and people of Rome are upon us : and that, as our force 
and courage shall now prove, such will be the fortune of that 
city and of the Roman empire. 

IX. — Speech of Hannibal to the Carthaginian Jlrmy, on the 
same occasion. 

I know not, Soldiers, whether you or your prisoners be en- 
compassed by fortune with the stricter bonds and necessities. 
Two seas enclose you on the right and left ; not a ship to fly to 
for escaping. Before you is the Po, a river broader and more 
rapid than the Rhone ; behind you are the Alps ; over which, 
even when your numbers were undiminished, you were hardly 
able to force a passage. Here then, soldiers, you must either 
conquer or die, the very first hour you meet the enemy. 

But the same fortune which has thus laid you under the ne- 
cessity of fighting, has set before your eyes the most glorious 
reward of victory. Should we, by our valour, recover only Sicily 
and Sardinia, which were ravished from our fathers, those would 
be no inconsiderable prizes. Yet, what are those ? The wealth 
of Rome ; whatever riches she has heaped together in the spoils 
of nations; all these, with the masters of them, will be "yours. 
The time is now come to reap the full recompense of your toil- 



280 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

some marches, over so many mountains and rivers, and through 
so many nations, all of them in arms. This is the place which 
fortune has appointed to be the limits of your labour ; it is here 
that you will finish your glorious warfare, and receive an ample 
recompense of your completed service. For I would not have 
you imagine, that victory will be as difficult as the name of a 
Roman war is great and sounding. It has often happened, that 
a despised enemy has given a bloody battle ; and the most re- 
nowned kings and nations have by a small force been overthrown. 
And, if you but take away the glitter of the Roman name, what 
is there wherein they may stand in competition with you ? For 
(to say nothing of your service in war, for twenty years together, 
with so much valour and success) from the very pillars of Her- 
cules, from the ocean, from the utmost bounds of the earth, 
through so many warlike nations of Spain and Gaul, are you not 
come hither victorious? And with whom are you now to fight? 
With raw soldiers, an undisciplined army, beaten, vanquished, 
besieged by the Gauls the very last summer; an army unknown 
to their leader, and unacquainted with him. 

Or shall I, who was bom, I might almost say, but certainly 
brought up, in the tent of my father, that most excellent general ; 
shall I, the conqueror of Spain and Gaul, and not only of the 
Alpine nations, but, which is greater still, of the Alps them- 
selves ; shall I compare myself with this half-year's captain ? a 
captain, before whom should one place the two armies without 
their ensigns, I am persuaded he would not know to which of 
them he is consul. I esteem it no small advantage, soldiers, that 
there is not one among you, who has not often been an eye-wit- 
ness of my exploits in war ; not one, of whose valour I myself 
have not been a spectator, so as to be able to name the times and 
places of his noble achievements ; that with soldiers, whom I 
have a thousand times praised and rewarded, and whose pupil 
I was before I became their general, I shall march against an 
army of men strangers to one another. 

On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of cou- 
rage and strength. A veteran infantry ; a most gallant cavalry : 
you, my allies, most faithful and valiant ; you, Carthaginians, 
whom not only your country's cause, but the justest anger im- 
pels to battle. The hope, the courage of assailants, is always 
greater than of those who act upon the defensive. With hostile 
banners displayed, you are come down upon Italy : you bring the 
war. Grief, injuries, indignities, fire your minds, and spur you 
forward to revenge. First, they demand me, that I, your gene- 
ral, should be delivered up to them ; next, all of you who had 
fought at the siege of Saguntum : and we were to be put to death 
by the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation ! Every 
thing must be yours, and at your disposal ! You are to prescribe 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 281 

to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we shall make 
peace ! You are to set us bounds ; to shut us up within hills 
and rivers ; but you, you are not to observe the limits which 
yourselves have fixed ! "Pass not the Iberus." What next? 
** Touch not the Saguntines ; Saguntum is upon the Iberus. move 
not a step towards that city." Is it a small matter, then, that 
you have deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily and Sar- 
dinia ? You would have Spain, too. Weil ; we shall yield 
Spain, and then — you will pass into Africa. Will pass, did I 
say ? This very year they ordered one of their consuls into 
Africa, the other into Spain. No, soldiers ; there is nothing left 
for us but what we can vindicate with our swords. Come on, 
then. Be men. The Romans may, with more safety, be cow- 
ards : they have their own country behind them, have places of 
refuge to fly to, and are secure from danger in the roads thither; 
but for you, there is no middle fortune between death and vic- 
tory. Let this be but well fixed in your minds — and, once again, 
I say you are conquerors. 

X.— Public Faith. 

To expatiate on the value of public faith may pass with some 
men for declamation — to such men I have nothing to say. To 
others I will urge — can any circumstance mark upon a people 
more turpitude and debasement ? Can anything tend more to 
make men think themselves mean, or degrade to a lower point 
their estimation of virtue, and their standard of action ? 

It would not merely demoralize mankind, it tends to break all 
the ligaments of society, to dissolve that mysterious charm which 
attracts individuals to the nation, and to inspire in its stead a re- 
pulsive sense of shame and disgust. 

What is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affection for the spot where 
a man was born ? Are the very clods where we tread entitled 
to this ardent preference because they are greener • No, sir ; 
this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars higher for its 
object. It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the enjoy- 
ments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest filaments of 
the heart. It is thus we obey the laws of society, because they 
are the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array 
of force and terror, but the venerable image of our country's ho- 
nour. Every good citizen makes that honour his own, and. che- 
rishes it not only as precious, but as sacred. He is willing to 
risk his life in its defence, and is conscious that he gains protec- 
tion while he gives it. For, what rights of a citizen will be 
deemed inviolable, when a state renounces the principles that 
constitute their security ? Or, if his life should not be invaded, 
what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of 
24* 



282 LESSONS IN [part II. 

strangers, and dishonoured in his own? Could he look with 
affection and veneration to such a country as his parent ? The 
sense of having one would die within him ; he would blush for 
his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly, for it would be a 
vice. Fie would be a banished man in his native land. 

I see no exception to the respect that is paid among nations 
to the law of good faith. If there are cases in this enlightened 
period, when it is violated, there are none when it is decried. It 
is the philosophy of politics, the religion of government. It is- 
observed by barbarians — a whiff of tobacco smoke, or a string of 
beads, gives not merely binding force, but sanctity to treaties. 
Even in Algiers, a truce may be bought for money ; but when 
ratified, even Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and annul 
its obligation. Thus we see, neither the ignorance of savages, 
nor the principles of an association for piracy and rapine, permit 
a nation to despise its engagements. If, sir, there could be a 
resurrection from the foot of the gallows, if the victims of justice 
could live again, collect together and form a society, they would, 
however loath, soon find themselves obliged to make justice, that 
justice under which they fell, the fundamental law of their state. 
They would perceive it was their interest to make others respect, 
and they would therefore soon pay some respect themselves to 
the obligations of good faith. 

It is painful, I hope it is superfluous, to make even the sup- 
position, that America should furnish the occasion of this oppro- 
brium. No, let me not even imagine, that a republican govern- 
ment, sprung, as our own is, from a people enlightened and un- 
corrupted, a government whose origin is right, and whose daily 
discipline is duty, can, upon solemn debate, make its option to 
be faithless — can dare to act what despots dare not avow, what 
our own example evinces, the states of Barbary are unsuspected 
of. No, let me rather make the supposition, that Great Britain 
refuses to execute the treaty, after we have done every thing to 
carry it into effect. Is there any language of reproach, pungent 
enough to express your commentary on the fact? What would 
you say, or rather what would you not say? Would you not 
tell them, wherever an Englishman might travel, shame would 
stick to him — he would disown his country? You would ex- 
claim, England, proud of your wealth, and arrogant in the pos- 
session of power — blush for these distinctions, which become the 
vehicles of your dishonour. Such a nation might truly say to 
corruption, thou art my father, and to the worm, thou art my 
mother and my sister. We should say of such a race of men, 
their name is a heavier burden than their debt. 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 283 



XL — Speech of Adherbal to the Roman Seriate, imploring their 
assistance against Jugurtha. 

Fathers! — It is knowli to you that king Micipsa, my father, 
on his death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, 
conjunctly with my unfortunate brother, Hiempsal, and myself, 
the children of his own body, the administration of the kingdom 
of Numidia, directing us to consider the senate and people of 
Rome as the proprietors of it. He charged us to use our best 
endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman commonwealth, in 
peace and war : assuring us, that your protection would prove to 
us a defence against all enemies, and would be instead of armies, 
fortifications and treasures. 

While my brother and I were thinking of nothing but how to 
regulate ourselves according to the directions of our deceased 
father — Jugurtha — the most infamous of mankind ! — breaking 
through all ties of gratitude and of common humanity, and tram- 
pling on the authority of the Roman commonwealth, procured 
the murder of my unfortunate brother, and has driven me from 
my throne and native country, though he knows I inherit, from 
my grandfather Massinissa, and my father Micipsa, the friend- 
ship and alliance of the Romans. 

For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my distressful cir- 
cumstances, is calamity enough ; but my misfortunes are height- 
ened by the consideration' — that I find myself obliged to solicit 
your assistance, Fathers, for the services done you by my ances- 
tors, not for any I have been able to render you in my own per- 
son. Jugurtha has put it out of my power to deserve anything 
at your hands ; and has forced me to be burdensome before I 
could be useful to you. And yet, if I had no plea, but my un- 
deserved misery — a once powerful prince, the descendant of a 
race of illustrious monarchs, now, without any fault of my own, 
destitute of every support, and reduced to the necessity of beg- 
ging foreign assistance, against an enemy who has seized my 
throne and my kingdom — if my unequalled distresses were all I 
had to plead — it would become the greatness of the Roman com- 
monwealth, the arbitress of the world, to protect the injured, and 
to check the triumph of daring wickedness over helpless inno- 
cence. But, to provoke your vengeance to the utmost%Jugurtha 
has driven me from the very dominions which the senate and the 
people of Rome gave to my ancestors ; and from which my grand- 
father, and my father, under your umbrage, expelled Syphax and 
the Carthaginians. Thus, Fathers, your kindness to our family 
is defeated ; and Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt on 
you. 

O wretched prince ! O cruel reverse of fortune ! O father 



284 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Micipsa ! is this the consequence of your generosity ; that he 
whom your goodness raised to an equality with your own chil- 
dren, should be the murderer of your children ? Must then the 
royal house of Numidia always be a scene of havoc and blood ? 
While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be expected, 
all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks; our enemy near ; 
our only powerful ally, the Roman commonwealth, at a distance. 
While we were so circumstanced, we were always in arms and 
in action. When that scourge of Africa was no more, we con- 
gratulated ourselves on the prospect of established peace. But 
instead of peace, behold the kingdom of Numidia drenched with 
royal blood ! and the only surviving son of its late king, flying 
from an adopted murderer, and seeking that safety in foreign 
parts, which he cannot command in his own kingdom. 

Whither — Oh ! whither shall I fly ? If I return to the royal 
palace of my ancestors, my father's throne is seized by the mur- 
derer of my brother. What can I there expect, but that Jugur- 
tha should hasten to imbrue, in my blood, those hands which are 
now reeking with my brother's ? If I were to fly for refuge, or 
assistance, to any other court, from what prince can I hope for 
protection, if the Roman commonwealth give me up ? From my 
own family or friends I have no expectations. My royal father 
is no more. He is beyond the reach of violence, and out of 
hearing of the «omplaints of his unhappy son. Were my brother 
alive, our mutual sympathy would be some alleviation. But he 
is hurried out of life, in his early youth, by the very hand which 
should have been the last to injure any of the royal family of 
Numidia. The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he 
suspected to be in my interest. Some have been destroyed by 
the lingering torment of the cross. Others have been given a 
prey to wild beasts, and their anguish made the sport of men 
more cruel than wild beasts. If there be any yet alive, they are 
shut up in dungeons, there to drag out a life more intolerable 
thn death itself. 

Look down, illustrious senators of Rome ! from that height of 
power to which you are raised, on the unexampled distresses of 
a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked intruder, become an 
outcast from all mankind. Let not the crafty insinuations of him 
who returns murder for adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do 
not listen to the wretch who has butchered the son and relations 
of a king, who gave him power to sit on the same throne with 
his own sons. I have been informed, that he labours by his 
emissaries, to prevent your determining anything against him in 
his absence ; pretending that I magnify my distress, and might 
for him have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But if ever 
the time comes when the due vengeance from above shall over- 
take him, he will then tremble as I do. Then he, who now, 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 285 

hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those whom his violence 
has laid low, will, in his turn, feel distress, and suffer for his im- 
pious ingratitude to my father, and his blood-thirsty cruelty to 
my brother. 

O murdered, butchered brother! O dearest to my heart — 
now gone forever from my sight! — But why should I lament 
his death ? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed light of heaven, 
of life, and kingdom at once, by the very person who ought to 
have been the first to hazard his own life in defence of any one 
of Micipsa's family. But, as things are, my brother is not so 
much deprived of these comforts, as delivered from terror, from 
flight, from exile, and the endless train of miseries which render 
life to me a burden. He lies full low, gored with wounds, and 
festering in his own blood. But he lies in peace. He. feels 
none of the miseries which rend my soul with agony and dis- 
traction, while I am set up a spectacle to all mankind of the un- 
certainty of human affairs. So far from having it in my power 
to revenge his death, I am not master of the means of securing 
my own life. So far from being in a condition to defend my 
kingdom from the violence of the usurper, I am obliged to apply 
for foreign protection for my own person. 

Fathers ! Senators of Rome ! The arbiters of the world ! to 
you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugurtha. By 
your affection for your children, by your love for your country, 
by your own virtues, by the majesty of the Roman common- 
wealth, by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to you — deliver 
a wretched prince from undeserved, unprovoked injury ; and 
save the kingdom of Numidia, which is your own property, from 
being the prey of violence, usurpation, and cruelty. 

XII. — The Right of the Americans to take up Arms. 

My lords: — I will not join in congratulation on misfortune 
and disgrace. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous mo- 
ment: it is not a time for adulation : the smoothness of flattery 
cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now neces- 
sary to instruct the throne, in the language of Truth. We must, 
if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness which envelope it ; 
and display, in its full danger and genuine colours, the ruin 
which is brought to our doors. Can ministers still presume to 
expect support in their infatuation ? Can parliament be so dead 
to its dignity and duty as to give support to measures thus ob- 
truded and forced upon them ? Measures, my lords, which have 
reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and contempt. But 
yesterday, "and England might have stood against the world — 
now, none so poor to do her reverence." The people whom we 
at first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as 



286 LESSONS IN [part II. 

enemies, are abetted against you, supplied with every military 
store, their interests consulted, and their ambassadors entertained 
by your inveterate enemy ; and our ministers do not, and dare 
not, interpose with dignity or effect. The desperate state of our 
army abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems 
and honours the English troops than I do: I know their virtues 
and their valour : I know they can achieve anything except im- 
possibilities ; and I know that the conquest of English America 
is an impossibility. You cannot, my lords, you cannot conquer 
America. What is your present situation there? We do not 
know the worst, but we know that in three campaigns we have 
done nothing, and suffered much. You may swell every ex- 
pense, and strain every effort, accumulate every assistance, and 
extend your traffic to the shambles of every German despot ; your 
attempts forever will be vain and impotent ; doubly so indeed 
from this mercenary aid on which you rely ; for it irritates to 
an incurable resentment the minds of your adversaries, to over- 
run them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, de- 
voting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling 
cruelty. If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while 
a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay 
down my arms — never! never! never! But, my lords, who 
is the man that, in addition to the disgraces and mischiefs of war, 
has dared to authorize and associate to our arms, the tomahawk 
and scalping-knife of the savage — to call into civilized alliance 
the wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods? — to delegate to 
the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, and to wage 
the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren ? My lords, 
these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. Fami- 
liarized to the horrid scenes of savage cruelty, our army can no 
longer boast of the noble and generous principles which dignify 
a soldier. No longer are their feelings awake to " the pride, 
pomp, and circumstance of glorious war :" — but the sense of 
honour is degraded into a vile spirit of plunder, and the syste- 
matic practice of murder. From the ancient connexion between 
Great Britain.and her colonies, both parties derived the most im- 
portant advantage. While the shield of our protection was ex- 
tended over America, she was the fountain of our wealth, the 
nerve of our strength, the basis of our power. It is not, my 
lords, a wild and lawless banditti whom we oppose ; the resist- 
ance of America is the struggle of free and virtuous patriots. 
Let us then seize with eagerness the present moment of recon- 
ciliation. America has not yet finally given herself up to France : 
there yet remains a possibility of escape from the fatal effect of 
our delusions. In this complicated crisis of danger, weakness, 
and calamity, terrified and insulted by the neighbouring powers, 
unable to act in America, or acting only to be destroyed, where 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 287 

is the man who will venture to flatter us with the hope of success 
from perseverance in measures productive of these dire effects? 
Who has the effrontery to attempt it? Where is that man? 
Let him, if he dare, stand forward and show his face. You can- 
not conciliate America by your present measures : you cannot 
subdue her by your present or any measures. What then can 
you do ? You cannot conquer, you cannot gain ; but you can 
address : you can lull the fears and anxieties of the moment into 
ignorance of the danger that should produce them. I did hope, 
instead of that false and empty pride, engendering high conceits 
and presumptuous imaginations, that ministers would have hum- 
bled themselves in their errors, would have confessed and retracted 
them, and by an active, though a late repentance, have endea- 
voured to redeem them. But, my lords, since they have neither 
sagacity to foresee, nor justice nor humanity to shun those ca- 
lamities — since not even bitter experience can make them feel, 
nor the imminent ruin of their country awaken them from their 
stupefaction, the guardian care of parliament must interpose. I 
shall therefore, my lords, propose to you an amendment to the 
address to his majesty — To recommend an immediate cessation 
of hostilities, and the commencement of a treaty to restore peace 
and liberty to America, strength and happiness to England, se- 
curity and permanent prosperity to both countries. This, my 
lords, is yet in our power ; and let not the wisdom and justice 
of your lordships neglect the happy and perhaps the only op- 
portunity. 

XIII. — The Right of Britain to tax America. 

" Oh ! inestimable right ! Oh ! wonderful, transcendent right, 
the assertion of which has cost this country thirteen provinces, 
six islands, one hundred thousand lives, and seventy millions of 
money ! Oh ! invaluable right ! for the sake of which we have 
sacrificed our rank among nations, our importance abroad, and 
our happiness at home ! Oh right ! more dear to us than our 
existence, which has already cost us so much, and which seems 
likely to cost us our all. Infatuated man !" fixing his eye on the 
minister, " miserable and undone country ! not to know that the 
claim of right, without enforcing it, is nugatory and idle. We 
have a right to tax America, the noble lord tells us ; therefore 
we ought to tax America. This is the profound logic which 
comprises the whole chain of his reasoning. Not inferior to this 
was the wisdom of him who resolved to shear the wolf. What ! 
shear a wolf! Have you considered the resistance, the difficulty, 
the danger of the attempt ? No, says the madman, I have con- 
sidered nothing but the right. Man has a right of dominion 
over the beasts of the forest : and therefore I will shear the wolf. 



288 LESSONS IN [fart II. 

How wonderful that a nation could be thus deluded. But the 
noble lord deals in cheats and delusions. They are the daily 
traffic of his invention ; and he will continue to play off his cheats 
on this House, so long as he thinks them necessary to his pur- 
pose, and so Jong as he has money enough at command to bribe 
gentlemen to pretend that they believe him. But a black and 
bitter day of reckoning will surely come ; and whenever that day 
come, I trust I shall be able, by a parliamentary impeachment, 
to bring upon the heads of the authors of our calamities, the pun- 
ishment they deserve." 

XIV. — Speech of Canuleius to the Consuls ; in which he de- 
mands that the Plebeians may be admitted into the Consul- 
ship, and that the laws prohibiting Patricians and Plebeians 
from intermarrying, may be repealed. 

What an insult upon us is this ! If we are not so rich as the 
Patricians, are we not citizens of Rome as well as they? inhab- 
itants of the same country ? members of the same community ? 
The nations bordering upon Rome, and even strangers more 
remote, are admitted not only to marriage with us, but to 
what is of much greater importance, the freedom of the city. 
Are we, because we are commoners, to be worse treated than 
strangers ? — And, when we demand that the people may be free 
to bestow their offices and dignities on whom they please, do we 
ask anything unreasonable or new ? Do we claim more than 
their original inherent right? What occasion, then, for all this 
uproar, as if the universe were falling to ruin ? They were just 
going to lay violent hands upon me in the senate-house. 

What ! must this empire, then, be unavoidably overturned ; 
must Rome of necessity sink at once, if a Plebeian, worthy of the 
office, should be raised to the consulship? The Patricians, I am 
persuaded, if they could, would deprive you of the common light. 
It certainly offends them that you breathe, that you speak, that 
you have the shapes of men. Nay, but to make a commoner a 
consul, would be, say they, a most enormous thing. Numa 
Pompilius, however, without being so much as a Roman citizen, 
was made king of Rome. The elder Tarquin, by birth not even 
an Italian, was nevertheless placed upon the throne. Servius 
Tullius, the son of a captive woman, (nobody knows who his 
father was) obtained the kingdom, as the reward of his wisdom 
and virtue. In those days, no man in whom virtue shone con- 
spicuous was rejected or despised on account of his race and de- 
scent. And did the state prosper the less for that? Were not 
these strangers the very best of all our kings? And, supposing, 
now, that a Plebeian should have their talents and merit, would 
he be suffered to govern us ? 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 

But, " we find that, upon the abolition of the regal power, no 
commoner was chosen to the consulate." And what of that ? 
Before Numa's time, there were no pontiffs in Rome. Before 
Servius Tullius' days, there was no census, no division of the 
people into classes and centuries. Who ever heard of consuls 
before the expulsion of Tarquin the proud ? Dictators, we all 
know, are of modern invention ; and so are the officers of tri- 
bunes, eediles, quaestors. Within these ten years we have made 
decemvirs, and we have unmade them. Is nothing to be done 
but what has been done before ? That very law forbidding mar- 
riages of Patricians with Plebeians, — is not that a new thing ? 
Was there any such law before the decemvirs enacted it? And 
a most shameful one it is in a free state. Such marriages, it 
seems, will taint the pure blood of the nobility ! Why, if they 
think so, let them take care to match their sisters and daughters 
with men of their own sort. No Plebeian will do violence to the 
daughter of a Patrician. Those are exploits for our prime nobles. 
There is no need to fear that we shall force anybody into a con- 
tract of marriage. But, to make an express law to prohibit mar- 
riages of Patricians with Plebeians, what is this but to show the 
utmost contempt of us, and to declare one part of the community 
to be impure and unclean ? 

They talk to us of the confusion there would be in families, 
if this statute should be repealed. I wonder they don't make a 
law against a commoner's living near a nobleman, or going the 
same road that he is going, or being present at the same feast, 
or appearing in the same market-place. They might as well 
pretend that these things make confusion in families, as that in- 
termarriages will do it. Does not every one know that the chil- 
dren will be ranked according to the quality of their father, let 
hirn be a Patrician or a Plebeian ? In short, it is manifest enough 
that we have nothing in view, but to be treated as men and citi- 
zens ; nor can they who oppose our demand have any motive to 
do it, but the love of domineering. I would fain know of you, 
consuls and Patricians, is the sovereign power in the people of 
Rome, or in you ? I hope you will allow, that the people can, 
at their pleasure, either make a law or repeal one. And will 
you, then, as soon as any law is proposed to them, pretend to 
list them immediately for the war, and hinder them from giving 
their suffrages, by leading them into the field ? 

Hear me, consuls. Whether the news of the war you talk of 
be true, or whether it be only a false rumour, spread abroad for 
nothing but a colour to send the people out of the city : I de- 
clare, as a tribune, that this people, who have already so often 
spilt their blood in our country's cause, are again ready to arm 
for its defence and its glory, if they may be restored to their na^ 
tural rights, and you will no longer treat us like strangers in oujt 
25 t 



290 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

own country ; but if you account us unworthy of your alliance, 
by intermarriages ; if you will not suffer the entrance to the 
chief offices in the state to be open to all persons of merit, in- 
differently, but will confine your choice of magistrates to the 
senate alone — talk of wars as much as ever you please — paint 
in your ordinary discourses, the league and power of our ene- 
mies, ten times more dreadful than you do now — I declare, that 
this people, whom you so much despise, and to whom you are 
nevertheless indebted for all your victories, shall never more en- 
list themselves — not a man of them shall take arms — not a man 
of them shall expose his life for imperious lords, with whom he 
can neither share the dignities of the state, nor in private life 
have any alliance by marriage. 

XV. — Speech of Junius Brutus, over the dead body of Lucretia. 

Yes, noble lady, I swear by this blood, which was once so 
pure, and which nothing but royal villany could have polluted, 
that I will pursue Lucius Tarquinius the proud, his wicked wife, 
and their children, with fire and sword ; nor will I ever suffer 
any of that family, or of any other whatsoever, to be king in 
Rome : ye gods, I call you to witness this my oath ! There, 
Romans, turn your eyes to that sad spectacle ; the daughter of 
Lucretius, Collatinus' wife : she died by her own hand. See 
there a noble lady, whom the lust of a Tarquin reduced to the 
necessity of being her own executioner, to attest her innocence. 
Hospitably entertained by her, as a kinsman of her husband's, 
Sextus, the perfidious guest, became her brutal ravisher. The 
chaste, the generous Lucretia, could not survive the insujt. 
Glorious woman ! But once only treated as a slave, she thought 
life no longer to be endured. Lucretia, as a woman, disdained a 
life that depended on a tyrant's will; and shall we — shall men, 
with such an example before our eyes, and after five-and-tvventy 
years of ignominious servitude, shall we, through a fear of dying, 
defer one single instant to assert our liberty ? No, Romans, now 
is the time ; the favourable moment we have so long waited for, 
is come. Tarquin is not at Rome. The Patricians are at the 
head of the enterprise. The city is abundantly provided with 
men, arms, and all things necessary. There is nothing wanting 
to secure the success, if our own courage does not fail us. And 
shall those warriors who have ever been so brave when foreign 
enemies were to be subdued, or when conquests were to be made 
lo gratify the ambition and avarice of a Tarquin, be then only 
cowards, Avhen they are to deliver themselves from slavery ?— 
some of you are perhaps intimidated by the army which Tar- 
quin now commands. The soldiers, you imagine, will take the 
part of their general. Banish so groundless a fear. The love 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 291 

of liberty is natural to all men. Your fellow-citizens in the camp 
feel the weight of oppression, with as quick a sense as you that 
are in Rome ; they will as eagerly seize the occasion of throwing 
off the yoke. But let us grant that there are some among them 
who, through baseness of spirit, or a bad education, will be dis- 
posed to favour the tyrant. The number of these can be but 
small, and we have means sufficient in our hands to reduce them 
to reason. They have left us hostages more dear to them than 
life. Their wives, their children, their fathers, their mothers, 
are here in the city. Courage, Romans, the gods are for us ; 
those gods, whose temples and altars the impious Tarquin has 
profaned, by sacrifices and libations made with polluted hands, 
polluted with blood, and with numberless unexpiated crimes 
committed against his subjects. Ye gods, who protected our 
forefathers — ye genii, who watch for the preservation and glory 
of Rome, do you inspire us with courage and unanimity in the 
glorious cause, and we will, to our last breath, defend your wor- 
ship from all profanation ! 

XVI. — Extract from the Speech of Demosthenes for the 
Crown.* 

But all these numerous topics are addressed to you, the 
judges, and to the strangers who are present and listening to the 
trial ; forasmuch as against this contemptible wretch himself, a 
short and simple statement would suffice. For if futurity wda 
revealed to you alone cf all mankind. iEschines, when the state 
was in deliberation upon the measures to be adopted — that was 
the time for you to have foretold the result ; — but if you did not 
foresee it, you are open to the imputation of the same ignorance 
as others: — what greater right, then, have you to accuse me 
upon this subject, than I to accuse you? In this, at least, I 
proved myself so much a better citizen than yourself upon these 
very measures (and I am, at present, speaking of none other), in 
proportion as I rendered myself responsible for what then seemed 
to be for the public interest, without any personal apprehension 
or underhand calculation about myself; whilst you neither 
offered any better suggestions (for if you had, the people would 
not have acted upon mine), nor made yourself useful in any one 
particular; — but the very course which might have been ex- 
pected from the worst-disposed person and the bitterest enemy 
of the State, you are proved to have pursued upon the events as 
they have arisen: — and, at the same moment, Aristratus at 
Naxes, Aristolaus at Thassus — in one word, the enemies of the 
Athenians, all the world over, are dragging their friends to the 

* In reference to the decree which had the effect of uniting the Thebans 
and Athenians against Philip. 



292 LESSONS IN [part II. 

bar of justice, and at Athens iEschines is, of course, accusing 
Demosthenes ! Although that man, for whom the misfortunes 
of the Greeks are reserved as a source of glory, ought rather to 
suffer death himself than accuse another ; and he cannot be well 
affected to his country who has such an identity of interest with 
its enemies, as that the same circumstances should be at once 
profitable to both. By the habits of your life and private con- 
duct — by what you do in public affairs — and by what you de- 
cline doing, you manifest what you are. Is there any thing 
going on, from which there is a prospect of advantage to the 
country ? iEschines is dumb. Has there been any failure, or 
a result different from what it ought ? Forth comes JEschines ! 
just as old fractures and sprains rack us afresh when the body 
is attacked by disease. 

Seeing, however, that he dwells so much upon. past events, I 
am willing to maintain what may appear paradoxical ; but let no 
man, in the name of Jupiter and the gods I conjure you, feel 
astonished at my boldness, but attend favourably to what I am 
about to say. If, then, the events which were about to happen 
had been manifest to all, and every man had foreseen them, and 
you, iEschines, had predicted and protested, with shouts and 
vociferations, — you, who never opened your mouth, — I say, that 
not even then should the city have departed from its line of 
policy, if it had any concern for its glory, its ancestors, or pos- 
terity. For, as it is, we but appear to have failed in our under- 
takings, which is the common lot of humanity, when it is God's 
pleasure ; but, in the other case, we should have been subject to 
the imputation of having affected to take the lead amongst the 
Greeks, and afterwards, in abandoning that pretension, of hav- 
ing betrayed them all into the hands of Philip. For if without 
a struggle we had resigned this precedence, — in support of 
which there is no danger, of whatever description, which our 
ancestors have not endured, — who is there who might not justly 
have despised even you, iEschines, to say nothing of the State, 
or of myself ? Good God ! with what countenance could we 
have borne to look in the faces of strangers who arrived in the 
city, if affairs had proceeded to the present crisis, and Philip had 
been chosen Captain-General and Ruler of Greece, and others 
had commenced a struggle to prevent this happening, without 
our participation ? And that, too, when, in no former time, this 
country has ever preferred inglorious security to peril in pursuit 
of honour. For what Greek, or what barbarian does not know 
full well, that both by the Thebans, and, earlier still, by the 
Lacedaemonians, when they were in power, and by the king of 
Persia himself, it would have been most thankfully conceded to 
this city to retain its own possessions, and to receive almost any 
acquisition, provided it would submit to a command, and allow 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 293 

another to lord it over the Greeks ? But such things, it seems, 
were not deemed, by the Athenians of those days, hereditary, or 
bearable, or natural. Nor has any man ever, during all time, 
been enabled to persuade this city, by adhering to those who had 
power, but were unwilling to act justly, to purchase security 
with slavery ; but, throughout its whole career, it has persevered 
in a contest and hazardous struggle for supremacy, and honour, 
and glory. And these principles you deem to be so congenial 
with your habits, that you praise those of your ancestors the 
most who have acted up to them the best. And with good rea- 
son. For who can fail to admire the virtue of those men, who 
endured to leave their territory and their city and embark on 
ship-board, that they might not submit to a master, — having cho- 
sen for their general Themistocles, who gave them this counsel, 
and having stoned to death Cyrsilus, who declared himself for 
listening to the terms dictated, — and not merely so, but your very 
wives having stoned to death his ? For the Athenians of those 
days did not look for an orator or a general by whose means 
they might be prosperous and enslaved. They did not deign to 
live, unless they were allowed to do so with freedom. For 
every man amongst them conceived that he was born, not merely 
for his father and his mother, but for his country. And what is 
the difference ? Why, that the man who supposes that he is 
born for his parents only, awaits the spontaneous arrival and 
appointed time of death ; but he who believes that he is born 
for his country also, will be willing to lay down his life that he 
may not see it enslaved, and will regard the contumelies and 
insults which he must endure in an enslaved country as far more 
to be feared than death. 

If now I affected to say that I induced you to adopt opinions 
worthy of your ancestors, there is no man who might not justly 
reprehend me : but, as it is, I am showing that, before my time, 
the State entertained these sentiments, though a share in the 
execution of every thing which has been done I do affirm to be 
mine. But this iEschines, in condemning the whole in a lump, 
and exhorting you to regard me with aversion, as the cause of 
the terror and danger which befel the country, is, indeed, desirous 
of depriving me of my temporary glory ; but is, at the sarr'i 
time, robbing you of the praises which are your due thronghi t 
all after ages. For, if you should condemn Ctesiphon, upon i\ z 
ground that my public measures were not the best possible, you 
will appear to have been in error, and not to have suffered that 
which has happened through the blind caprice of fortune. But 
it cannot be, — it cannot be that you have erred, O men of Athens, 
in encountering danger for the common liberty and safety of 
Greece. No ! — By those ancestors I swear, who, for this cause, 
courted death at Marathon, and who stood in battle-array at 
25* 



294 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

Plataeae, and by those who fought the sea-fights at Salamis and 
off Artemisium, and so many other brave men who lie interred 
in the public sepulchres of the country ; — all of whom the State 
buried without distinction, iEschines deeming them worthy of 
equal honours, — and not those only who were successful, or who 
won the victory. And justly. For the duty of brave men was 
done by them all; but the fortune which they met with was 
such as Providence was pleased to dispense to them. 

XVII. — Extract from the Oration of JEschines against 
Demosthenes, 

What ? — Is the man whom you propose to be crowned, of 
such a description that he cannot be known by those who have 
been benefited by him, unless there be somebody to speak for 
you ? Ask, then, the judges if they knew Chabrias, and Iphi- 
crates, and Timotheus ; and inquire of them wherefore they 
gave them rewards and erected statues to their honour ? They 
all, with one voice, will answer that it was to Chabrias, on ac- 
count of the naval victory at Naxos, — to Iphicrates, because he 
cut in pieces the Lacedaemonian legion, — to Timotheus, for the 
relief of Corcyra, — and to others, because many and honourable 
exploits have been performed by them in war. And if any one 
should inquire of you why you will not give them to Demosthe- 
nes, your answer should be, because he has taken bribes, — 
because he is a coward, — because he has deserted his post in 
the field! And whether (think you) will you honour him, or 
dishonour yourselves, and those who have died for you in battle 
— whom imagine you see bewailing — if this, man shall be 
crowned ! For it would be monstrous, O Athenians ! if we re- 
move out of our territory stocks, and stones, and pieces of iron, 
— mute and senseless objects, — if, by falling upon persons, they 
have been the cause of their death ; and if any one shall commit 
suicide, we bury the hand which did the deed apart from the 
body, and you shall honour Demosthenes, O Athenians! — the 
man who proposed the last of all your expeditions, and betrayed 
your soldiers to the enemy ! Why then the dead are dis- 
honoured, and the living become dispirited when they behold 
death the appointed prize of valour, and the memory of the dead 
fading away. 

But, what is the most important of all, if your youths should 
inquire of you upon what model they ought to form their con- 
duct, what will you answer? For you well know, that it is not 
the Palaestras alone, nor the schools, nor music, which instruct 
your youth, but much more the public proclamations. Is any 
man, scandalous in -his life, and odious for his vices, proclaimed 
in the theatre as having been crowned on account of his virtue, 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 295 

his general excellence and patriotism ?— the youth who witnesses 
it is depraved. Does any profligate and abandoned libertine, 
like Ctesiphon, suffer punishment? — all other persons are in- 
structed. Does a man, who has given a vote against what is 
honourable and just, upon his return home, attempt to teach his 
son? He, with good reason, will not listen; and that, w T hich 
would otherwise be instruction, is justly termed importunity. 
Do you, therefore, give your votes not merely as deciding the 
present cause, but with a view to consequences — for your justi- 
fication to those citizens who are not now present, but who will 
demand an account from you of the judgment which you have 
pronounced. For you know full well, O Athenians ! that the 
credit of the city will be such as is the character of the person 
who is crowned ; and it is a disgrace for you to be likened, not 
to your ancestors, but to the cowardice of Demosthenes. 

I, then — I call you to witness, ye Earth, and Sun ! — and Virtue, 
and Intellect, and Education, by which we distinguish what is 
honourable from what is base, — have given my help and have 
spoken. And if I have conducted the accusation adequately, 
and in a manner worthy of the transgression of the laws, I have 
spoken as I wished ; — if imperfectly, then only as I have been 
able. But do you, both from what has been said, and what has 
been omitted, of yourselves, decide as is just and convenient on 
behalf of the country. 

XVIII. — Speech of Lord Chatham, in reply to Lord Suffolk, 
on the employment of Indians in the American War. 

Lord Suffolk, secretary of state, contended for the employ- 
ment of Indians in the American war: "Besides its policy and 
necessity," his lordship said "that the measure was also allow- 
able on principle ; for that it was perfectly justifiable to use all 
the means which God and nature had put into our hands." 
Lord Chatham instantly replied : 

"I am astonished, shocked to hear such principles confessed, 
to hear them avowed in this House, or even in this county. 
My lords, I did not intend to have encroached again on your 
attention, but I cannot repress my indignation. I feel myself 
impelled to speak. My lords, we are called upon as members 
of this- House, as men, as Christians, to protest against such 
horrid barbarity — that God and nature put into our hands! 
What ideas of God and nature that noble lord may entertain, I 
know not; but I know that such detestable principles are equally 
abhorrent to religion and humanity ! What, to attribute the 
sacred sanction of God and nature to the massacres of the Indian 
scalping-knife ! — to the cannibal savage, torturing, murdering, 
devouring, drinking the blood of his mangled victims! Such 



296 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

notions shock every precept of morality, every feeling of hu- 
manity, every sentiment of honour. These abominable princi- 
ples, and this more abominable avowal of them, demand the 
most decisive indignation. I call upon that reverend and this 
most learned bench to vindicate the religion of their God, to sup- 
port the justice of their country. I Call upon the bishops to 
interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn ; upon the judges 
to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us from this pol- 
lution. I call upon the honour of your lordships to reverence 
the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call 
upon the spirit and humanity of my country to vindicate the 
national character. I invoke the genius of the constitution. 
From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor 
of this noble lord frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his 
country. Tn vain did he defend the liberty and establish the 
religion of Britain against the tyranny of Rome, if these worse 
than popish cruelties and inquisitorial practices are endured 
among us. To send forth the merciless cannibal, thirsting for 
blood ! against whom ? Your protestant brethren ! — to lay waste 
their country, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their race 
and name, by the aid and instrumentality of these horrible hell- 
hounds of war ! Spain can no longer boast pre-eminence in bar- 
barity. She armed herself with blood-hounds to extirpate the 
wretched natives of Mexico ; but we, more ruthless, loose the 
dogs of war against our countrymen in America, endeared to us 
by every tie that should sanctify humanity. My lords, I solemnly 
call upon your lordships, and upon every order of men in the 
state, to stamp upon this infamous procedure the indelible stigma 
of the public abhorrence. More particularly I call upon the 
holy prelates of our religion to do away this iniquity ; let them 
perform a lustration to purify their country from this deep and 
deadly sin. My lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable 
to say more : but my feelings and indignation were too strong to 
say less. I could not have slept this night in my bed, nor re- 
posed my head upon my pillow, without giving this vent to my 
eternal abhorrence of such enormous and preposterous prin- 
ciples." 

XIX. — Demosthenes to the Athenians, exciting them to pro- 
secute the War against Philip. 

When I compare, Athenians, the speeches of some among us 
with their actions, I am at a loss to reconcile what I see with 
what I hear. Their protestations are full of zeal against the 
public enemy ; but their measures are so inconsistent, that all 
their professions become suspected. By confounding you with 
a variety of projects, they perplex your resolutions ; and lead 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 297 

you from executing what is in your power, by engaging you in 
schemes not reducible to practice. 

'Tis true, there was a time when we were powerful enough, 
not only to defend our own borders, and protect our allies, but 
even to invade Philip in his own dominions. Yes, Athenians, 
there was such a juncture ; I remember it well. But, by neglect 
of proper opportunities, we are no longer in a situation to be in- 
vaders ; it will be well for us if we can provide for our own 
defence, and our allies. Never did any conjuncture require so 
much prudence as this. However, I should not despair of sea- 
sonable remedies, had I the art to prevail with you to be unani- 
mous in right measures. The opportunities which have so often 
escaped us have not been lost through ignorance or want of 
judgment, but through negligence or treachery. If I assume, 
at this time, more than ordinary liberty of speech, I conjure you 
to suffer patiently those truths, which have no other end but 
your own good. You have too many reasons to be sensible how 
much you have suffered by hearkening to sycophants. I shall, 
therefore, be plain, in laying before you the grounds of past mis- 
carriages, in order to correct you in your future conduct. 

You may remember, it is not above three or four years since 
we had the news of Philip's laying siege to the fortress of Juno, 
in Thrace. It was, as I think, in October we received this in- 
telligence. We voted an immediate supply of threescore talents ; 
forty men of war were ordered to sea ; and so zealous were we, 
that, preferring the necessities of the state to our very laws, our 
citizens above the age of five-and -forty years were commanded 
to serve. What followed 1 A whole year was spent idly, 
without any thing done ; and it was but in the third month of 
the following year, a little after the celebration of the feast of 
Ceres, that Charademus set sail, furnished with no more than 
five talents, and ten galleys, not half-manned. 

A rumour was spread that Philip was sick. That rumour 
was followed by another — that Philip was dead. And then, as 
if all danger-died with him, you dropped your preparations; 
whereas, then, then was your time to push and be active ; then 
was your time to secure yourselves and confound him at once. 
Had your resolutions, taken with so much heat, been as warmly 
seconded by action, you had then been as terrible to Philip, as 
Philip, recovered, is now to you. "To what purpose, at this 
time, these reflections ? What is done, cannot be undone." But, 
by your leave, Athenians, though past moments are not to be re- 
called, past errors may be repeated. Have we not now a fresh 
provocation to war ? Let the memory of oversights, by which 
you have suffered so much, instruct you to be more vigilant in 
the present danger. If the Olynthians are not instantly suc- 
coured, and with your utmost efforts, you become assistants to 



298 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Philip, and serve him more effectually than he can help him- 
self. 

It is not, surely, necessary to warn you, that votes alone can 
be of no consequence. Had your resolutions, of themselves, the 
virtue to compass what you intend, we should not see them mul- 
tiply every day, as they do, and upon every occasion, with so 
little effect; nor would Philip be in a condition to brave and 
affront us in this manner. Proceed, then, Athenians, to support 
your deliberations with vigour. You have heads capable of ad- 
vising what is best ; you have judgment and experience to dis- 
cern what is right ; and you have power and opportunity to 
execute what you determine. What time so proper for action ? 
What occasion so happy ? And when can you hope for such 
another, if this be neglected? Has not Philip, contrary to all 
treaties, insulted you in Thrace ? Does he not, at this instant, 
straiten and invade your confederates, whom you have solemnly 
sworn to protect ? Is he not an implacable enemy? A faithless 
ally ? The usurper of provinces, to which he has no title nor 
pretence ? A stranger, a barbarian, a tyrant ? And, indeed, 
what is he not ? 

Observe, I beseech you, men of Athens, how different your 
conduct appears, from the practices of your ancestors. They 
were friends to truth and plain dealing, and detested flattery and 
servile compliance. By unanimous consent, they continued 
arbiters of all Greece, for the space of forty-five years, without 
interruption ; a public fund, of no less than ten thousand talents, 
was ready for any emergency ; they exercised over the kings 
of Macedon that authority which is due to barbarians; obtained, 
both by sea and land, in their own persons, frequent and signal 
victories ; and, by their noble exploits, transmitted to posterity an 
immortal memory of their virtue, superior to the reach of malice 
and detraction. It is to them we owe that great number of public 
edifices, by which the city of Athens exceeds all the rest of the 
world in beauty and magnificence. It is to them we owe so 
many stately temples, so richly embellished, but, above all, 
adorned with the spoils of vanquished enemies. — But, visit their 
own private habitations ; visit the houses of Aristides, Miltiades, 
or any other of those patriots of antiquity; — you will find no- 
thing, not the least mark or ornament, to distinguish them from 
their neighbours. They took part in the government, not to en- 
rich themselves, but the public ; they had no scheme or ambition, 
but for the public ; nor knew any interest, but for the public. It 
was by a close and steady application to the general good of their 
country, by an exemplary piety towards the immortal gods, by a 
strict faith and religious honesty betwixt man and man, and a 
moderation always uniform and of a piece, they established that 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 299 

reputation which remains to this day, and will last to utmost 
posterity. 

Such, O men of Athens ! were your ancestors : so glorious in 
the eye of the world; so bountiful and munificent to their coun- 
try ; so sparing, so modest, so self-denying to themselves. What 
resemblance can we find, in the present generation, of these great 
men ? At a time when your ancient competitors have left you a 
clear stage ; when the Lacedemonians are disabled ; the Thebans 
employed in troubles of their own ; when no other state whatever 
is in a condition to rival or molest you ; in short, when you are 
at full liberty ; when you have the opportunity and the power to 
become once more the sole arbiters of Greece ; you permit pa- 
tiently whole provinces to be wrested from you ; you lavish the 
public money in scandalous and obscure uses ; you suffer your 
allies to perish in time of peace, whom you preserved in time 
of war ; and to sum up all, you yourselves, by your mercenary 
court, and servile resignation to the will and pleasure of design- 
ing, insidious leaders, abet, encourage, and strengthen the most 
dangerous and formidable of your enemies. Yes, Athenians, I 
repeat it, you yourselves are the contrivers of your own ruin. 
Lives there a man who has confidence enough to deny it ? Let 
him arise, and assign, if he can, any other cause of the success 
and prosperity of Philip. — "But," you reply, "what Athens 
may have lost in reputation abroad, she has gained in splendour 
at home. Was there ever a greater appearance of prosperity ; a 
greater face of plenty ? Is not the city enlarged ? Are not the 
streets better paved, houses repaired and beautified ?" — Away 
with such trifles ! Shall I be paid with counters? An old square 
new vamped up ! a fountain ! an aqueduct ! Are these acquisi- 
tions to brag of? Cast your eye upon the magistrate, under 
whose ministry you boast these precious improvements. Behold 
the despicable creature, raised, all at once, from dirt to opulence ; 
from the lowest obscurity to the highest honours. Have not some 
of these upstarts built private houses and seats vieing with the 
most sumptuous of our public palaces ? And how have their 
fortunes and their power increased, but as the commonwealth 
has been ruined and impoverished ? 

To what are we to impute these disorders ; and to what cause 
assign the decay of a state so powerful and flourishing in past 
times ? — The reason is plain. — The servant is now become the 
master. The magistrate was then subservient to the people ; 
punishments and rewards were properties of the people ; all 
honours, dignities, and preferments, were disposed by the voice 
and favour of the people : but the magistrate, now, has usurped 
the right of the people, and exercises an arbitrary authority over 
his ancient and natural lord. You miserable people ! (the mean- 



300 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

while, without money, without friends) from being the ruler, are 
become the servant ; from being the master, the dependent ; 
happy that these governors, into whose hands you have thus re- 
signed your own power, are so good and so gracious as to continue 
your poor allowance to see plays. 

Believe me, Athenians, if, recovering from this lethargy, you 
would assume the ancient freedom and spirit of your fathers ; 
if you would be your own soldiers and your own commanders, 
confiding no longer your affairs in foreign or mercenary hands; 
if you would charge yourselves with your own defence, em- 
ploying abroad, for the public, what you waste in unprofitable 
pleasures at home ; the world might, once more, behold you 
making a figure worthy of Athenians.—" You would have us 
then (you say) do service in our armies, in our own persons ; 
and, for so doing, you would have the pensions we receive in 
time of peace accepted as pay in time of war. Is it thus we are 
to understand you ?" — Yes, Athenians, it is my plain meaning. 
I would make it a standing rule, that no person, great or little, 
should be the better for the public money, who should grudge to 
employ it for the public service. Are we in peace ? the public 
is charged with your subsistence. Are we in war, or under a 
necessity, at this time, to enter into a war? let your gratitude 
oblige you to accept, as pay, in defence of your benefactors, 
what you receive, in peace, as mere bounty. — Thus, without any 
innovation ; without altering or abolishing anything, but perni- 
cious novelties, introduced for the encouragement of sloth and 
idleness ; by converting only, for the future, the same funds, for 
the use of the serviceable, which are spent, at present, upon the 
unprofitable; you may be well served in your armies; your 
troops regularly paid; justice duly administered; the public 
revenues reformed and increased ; and every member of the 
commonwealth rendered useful to his country, according to his 
age and ability, without any further burden to the state. 

This, O men of Athens, is what my duty prompted me to re- 
present to you upon this occasion. — May the gods inspire you 
to determine upon such measures as may be most expedient for 
the particular and general good of our country ! 

XX. — British Influence.* 

Against whom are these charges brought ? Against men, 
who, in the war of the revolution, were in the councils of the 
nation, or fighting the battles of your country. And by whom 

* Extract from Randolph's speech on the increase of the army, in the 
House of Representatives, Dec. 10, 1811, in reply to the charge of being 
under British influence. 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING, 301 

are they made ? By runaways chiefly from the British domi- 
nions, since the breaking out of the French troubles. It is in- 
sufferable. It cannot be borne. It must and ought, with severity, 
to be put down in this House ; and out of it to meet the lie direct. 
We have no fellow-feeling for the suffering and oppressed Spa- 
niards! Yet even them we do not reprobate. Strange! that 
we should have no objection to any other people or government, 
civilized or savage, in the whole world ! The great autocrat of 
all the Russias receives the homage of our high consideration. 
The Dey of Algiers and his divan of pirates, are a very civil, good 
sort of people, with whom we find no difficulty in maintaining 
the relations of peace and amity. "Turks, Jews, and Infidels," 
Melimelli or the Little Turtle : barbarians and savages of every 
clime and colour, are welcome to our arms. With chiefs of ban- 
ditti, negro or mulatto, we can treat and can trade. Name, how- 
ever, but England, and all our antipathies are up in arms against 
her. Against whom ? Against those whose blood runs in our 
veins : in common with whom, we claim Shakspeare, and New- 
ton, and Chatham for our countrymen : whose form of govern- 
ment is the freest on earth, our own only excepted ; from whom 
every valuable principle of our own institutions has been bor- 
rowed — representation — jury trial — voting the supplies — writ 
of habeas corpus — our whole civil and criminal jurisprudence — 
against our fellow-protestants, identified in blood, in language, in 
religion, with ourselves. In what school did the worthies of our 
land, the Washington's, Henry's, Hancock's, Franklin's, Rut- 
ledge's of America, learn those principles of civil liberty, which 
were so nobly asserted by their wisdom and valour ? American 
resistance to British usurpation has not been more warmly che- 
rished by these great men and their compatriots ; not more by 
Washington, Hancock and Henry, than by Chatham and his 
illustrious associates in the British parliament. It ought to be 
remembered, too, that the heart of the English people was with 
us. It was a selfish and corrupt ministry, and their servile tools, 
to whom we were not more opposed than they were. I trust 
that none such may ever exist among us ; for tools will never be 
wanting to subserve the purposes, however ruinous or wicked, 
of kings and ministers of state. I acknowledge the influence 
of a Shakspeare and a Milton upon my imagination, of a Locke 
upon my understanding, of a Sidney upon my political princi- 
ples, of a Chatham upon qualities which, would to God, I pos- 
sessed in common with that illustrious man ! of a Tillotson, a 
Sherlock, and a Porteus, upon my religion. This is a British 
influence which I can never shake off. 

26 



302 LESSONS IN [PART II. 



XXI. — Jupiter to the inferior Deities, forbidding them to take 
any part in the contention between the Greeks and Trojans. 

Aurora, now, fair daughter of the dawn, 
Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn ; 
When Jove convened the senate of the skies, 
Where high Olympus' cloudy tops arise. 
The sire of gods his awful silence broke ; 
The heavens, attentive, trembled as he spoke : — 
" Celestial states ! immortal gods ! give ear ; 
Hear our decree ; and rev'rence what ye hear: 
The fix'd decree, which not all heaven can move : 
Thou, fate fulfil it : and ye powers approve. 
What god shall enter yon forbidden field, 
Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield ; 
Back to the skies, with shame he shall be driv'n, 
Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven: 
Or, from our sacred hill, with fury thrown, 
Deep in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan ; 
With burning chains fix'd to the brazen floors, 
And lock'd by hell's inexorable doors : 
As far beneath th' infernal centre hurl'd, 
As from that centre to th' ethereal world. 
Let each, submissive, dread those dire abodes, 
Nor tempt the vengeance of the God of gods. 
League all your forces, then, ye powers above ; 
Your strength unite against the might of Jove. 
Let down our golden everlasting chain, 
Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth, and main. 
Strive, all of mortal and immortal birth, 
To drag, by this, the thund'rer down to earth. 
Ye strive in vain. If I but stretch this hand, 
I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land. 
I fix the chain to great Olympus' height, 
And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight. 
For such I reign unbounded and above : 
And such are men, and gods, compared to Jove." 



XXII. — JEneas to Queen Dido, giving an JLc count of the 
Sack of Troy. 

All were attentive to the godlike man, 
When from his lofty couch he thus began : — 
Great Q,ueen ! What you command me to relate, 
Renews the sad remembrance of our fate ; 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 303 

An empire from its old foundations rent, 
And every woe the Trojans underwent ; 
A pop'lous city made a desert place ; 
All that I saw and part of which I was, 
Not e'en the hardest of our foes could hear, 
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 

'Twas now the dead of night, when sleep repairs 
Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares, 
When Hector's ghost before my sight appears : 
Shrouded in blood he stood, and bathed in tears : 
Such as when, by the fierce Pelides slain, 
Thessalian coursers dragg'd him o'er the plain. 
Swoll'n were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust 
Through the pierced limbs ; his body black with dust. 
Unlike that Hector, who return'd from toils 
Of war triumphant, in iEacian spoils ; 
Or him, who made the fainting Greeks retire, 
Hurling amidst their fleets the Phrygian fire. 
His hair and beard were clotted stiff with gore : 
The ghastly wounds he for his country bore, 
Now stream'd afresh. 
I wept to see the visionary man ; 
And whilst my trance continued, thus began : — 

" O light of Trojans, and support of Troy, 
Thy father's champion, and thy country's joy ! 
O long expected by thy friends ! From whence 
Art thou so late return'd to our defence ? 
Alas ! what wounds are these ? What new disgrace 
Deforms the manly honours of thy face ?" 

The spectre, groaning from his inmost breast, 
This warning, in these mournful words express'd. 

" Haste, goddess born ! Escape, by timely flight, 
The flames and horrors of this fatal night; 
Thy foes already have possess'd our wall ; 
Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall. 
Enough is paid to Priam's royal name, 
Enough to country, and to deathless fame. 
If by a mortal arm my father's throne 
Could have been saved — this arm the feat had done. 
Troy now commends to thee her future state, 
And gives her gods companions of thy fate ; 
Under their umbrage hope for happier walls, 
And follow where thy various fortune calls." 
He said, and brought from forth the sacred choir, 
The gods and relics of th' immortal fire. 

Now peals of shouts came thund'ring from afar, 
Cries, threats, and loud lament, and mingled war. 



304 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

The noise approaches, though our palace stood 

Aloof from streets, embosotn'd close with wood ; 

Louder and louder still I hear th' alarms 

Of human cries distinct, and clashing arms. 

Fear broke my slumbers. 

I mount the terrace : thence the town survey, 

And listen what the swelling sounds convey. 

Then Hector's faith was manifestly clear'd ; 

And Grecian fraud in open light appear'd. 

The palace of Deiphobus ascends 

In smoky flames, and catches on his friends. 

Ucalegon burns next ; the seas are bright 

With splendors not their own, and shine with sparkling light. 

New clamors and new clangors now arise, 
The trumpet's voice, with agonizing cries. 
With frenzy seized, I run to meet th' alarms, 
Resolved on death, resolved to die in arms. 
But first to gather friends, with whom t' oppose, 
If fortune favour'd, and repel the foes, 
By courage roused, by love of country fired, 
With sense of honour and revenge inspired. 
Pantheus, Apollo's priest, a sacred name, 
Had 'scaped the Grecian swords, and pass'd the flame 
With relics loaded, to my doors he fled, 
And by the hand his tender grandson led. 

" What hope, O Pantheus 1 whither can we run ? 
Where make a stand ? Or, what can yet be done ?" 
Scarce had I spoke, when Pantheus, with a groan, 
" Troy is no more ! Her glories now are gone. 
The fatal day, th' appointed hour is come, 
When wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom 
Transfers the Trojan state to Grecian hands : 
Our city 's wrapt in flames ; the foe commands. 
To several posts their parties they divide ; 
Some block the narrow streets ; some scour the wide. 
The bold they kill ; th' unwary they surprise ; 
Who fights meets death ; and death finds him who flies." 

XXIII. — Moloch, the fallen Angel, to the infernal Powers, 
inciting them to renew the War. 

My sentence is for open war. Of wiles 
More unexpert, I boast not ; then let those 
Contrive who need ; or when they need, not now. 
For while they sit contriving, shall the rest, 
Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait 



SECT. IV.] SPEAKING. 305 

The signal to ascend, sit ling'ring here, 

Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling place 

Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, 

The prison of his tyranny, who reigns 

By our delay ? No ; let us rather choose, 

Arm'd with hell flames and fury, all at once, 

O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, 

Turning our tortures into horrid arms, 

Against the tort'rer ; when, to meet the noise 

Of his almighty engine, he shall hear 

Infernal thunder ; and for lightning, see 

Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 

Among his angels — and his throne itself, 

Mix'd with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, 

His own invented torments. But perhaps, 

The way seems difficult and steep to scale, 

With upright wing, against a higher foe. 

Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench 

Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, 

That in our proper motion we ascend 

Up to our native seat ; descent and fall 

To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, 

When the fierce foe hung upon our broken rear 

Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, 

With what compulsion and laborious flight, 

We sunk thus low ? Th' ascent is easy then, 

Th' event is fear'd. Should we again provoke 

Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find, 

To our destruction ; if there be in hell, 

Fear to be worse destroy'd. What can be worse 

Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemn' d 

In this abhorred deep to utter woe ; 

Where pain of unextinguishable fire 

Must exercise us without hope of end, 

The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 

Inexorable, and the tort'ring hour 

Calls us to penance ? More destroy'd than thus 

We should be quite abolish'd and expire. 

What fear we then ? What doubt we to incense 

His utmost ire? Which to the height enraged, 

Will either quite consume us, and reduce 

To nothing this essential, (happier far, 

Than miserable, to have eternal being) 

Or if our substance be indeed divine, 

And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 

On this side nothing ; and by proof we feel 

26* u 



306 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

Our power sufficient to disturb this heaven, 
And with perpetual inroads to alarm, 
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne ; 
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge. 

XXIV. — Speech of Belial, advising Peace. 

I should be much for open war, O peers, 
As not behind in hate, if what was urged 
Main reason to persuade immediate war, 
Did not dissuade the most, and seem to cast 
Ominous conjecture on the whole success ; 
When he who most excels in feats of arms, 
In what he counsels, and in what excels, 
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair 
And utter dissolution, as the scope 
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 
First, what revenge ? The towers of heaven are fill'd 
With armed watch, that render all access 
Impregnable ; oft on the bordering deep 
Encamp their legions ; or, with obscure wing, 
Scout far and wide, into the realm of night, 
Scorning surprise. Or, could we break our way 
By force, and at our heels all hell should rise 
With blackest insurrection, to confound 
Heaven's purest light — yet our great enemy, 
All incorruptible, would on his throne 
Sit unpolluted ; and th' ethereal mould, 
Incapable of stain, would soon expel 
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, 
Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope 
Is flat despair. We must exasperate 
Th' almighty victor to spend all his rage, 
And that must end us ; that must be our cure, 
To be no more. Sad fate ! For who would lose, 
Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 
Those thoughts that wander through eternity, 
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
In the wide womb of uncreated night, 
Devoid of sense and motion ? And who knows, 
Let this be good, whether our angry foe 
Can give it, or will ever? How he can, 
Is doubtful ; that he never will, is sure. 
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, 
Belike through impotence, or unaware, 
To give his enemies their wish, and end 
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves 



SECT. V.Jj SPEAKING. 307 

To punish endless ? Wherefore cease we then ? 

Say they who counsel war, we are decreed, 

Reserved and destined to eternal woe ; 

Whatever doing, what can suffer more, 

What can we suffer worse ? Is this then worst, 

Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 

What, when we fled amain, pursued and struck 

With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought 

The deep to shelter us ? This hell then seem'd 

A refuge from those wounds ; or when we lay 

Chain'd on the burning lake ? That sure was worse. 

What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, 

Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, 

And plunge us in the flames ? Or, from above, 

Should intermitted vengeance arm again 

His red right hand to plague us ? What if all 

Her stores were open'd, and this firmament 

Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, 

Impendent horrors, threat'ning hideous fall 

One day upon our heads ; while we, perhaps, 

Designing or exhorting glorious war, 

Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurl'd 

Each on his rock transfix'd, the sport and prey 

Of wrecking whirlwinds, or forever sunk 

Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains ; 

There to converse with everlasting groans, 

Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, 

Ages of hopeless end ! This would be worse. 

War, therefore, open or conceal'd, alike 

My voice dissuades. 



SECTION V. 
DRAMATIC PIECES. 

I. DIALOGUE. 

I. — Belcour and Stochvell. 

Stock. Mr. Belcour, I am rejoiced to see you ; you are wel- 
come to England. 

Bel. I thank you heartily, good Mr. Stockwell. You and I 
have long conversed at a distance ; now we are met ; and the 
pleasure this meeting gives me, amply compensates for the perils 
I have run through in accomplishing it. 



308 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

Stock. What perils, Mr. Belcour ? I could not have thought 
you would have met with a bad passage at this time o'year. 

Bel. Nor did we. Courier-like, we came posting to your 
shores, upon the pinions of the swiftest gales that ever blew. It 
is upon English ground all my difficulties have arisen ; it is the 
passage from the river-side I complain of. 

Stock. Indeed ! What obstructions can you have met between 
this and the river-side ? 

Bel. Innumerable ! Your town 's as full of defiles as the 
island of Corsica; and I believe they are as obstinately defended. 
So much hurry, bustle, and confusion, on your quays ; so many 
sugar-casks, porter-butts, and common council men, in your 
streets ; that, unless a man marched with artillery in his front, 
it is more than the labour of a Hercules can effect, to make any 
tolerabie way through your town. 

Stock. I am sorry you have been so incommoded. 

Bel. Why, truly, it was all my own fault. Accustomed to a 
land of slaves, and out of patience with the whole tribe of 
custom-house extortioners, boatmen, tidewaiters and water-bailiffs, 
that beset me on all sides, worse than a swarm of moschetoes, 
I proceeded a little too roughly to brush them away with my 
rattan. The sturdy rogues took this in dudgeon ; and beginning 
to rebel, the mob chose different sides, and a furious scuffle en- 
sued ; in the course of which, my person and apparel suffered 
so much, that I was obliged to step into the first tavern to refit, 
before I could make my approaches in any decent trim. 

Stock. Well, Mr. Belcour, it is a rough sample you have had 
of my countrymen's spirit; but I trust you will not think the 
worse of them for it. 

Bel. Not at all, not at all : I like them the better. — Were I 
only a visiter, I might perhaps wish them a little more tractable; 
but, as a fellow-subject, and a sharer in their freedom, I applaud 
their spirit — though I feel the effects of it in every bone in my 
skin. — Well, Mr. Stockwell, for the first time in my life, here 
am I in England ; at the fountain head of pleasure ; in the land 
of beauty, of arts and elegancies. My happy stars have given 
me a good estate, and the conspiring winds have blown me hither 
to spend it. 

Stock. To use it, not to waste it, I should hope ; to treat it, 
Mr. Belcour, not as a vassal over whom you have a wanton 
despotic power, but as a subject whom you are bound to govern 
with a temperate and restrained authority. 

Bel. True, Sir, most truly said ; mine's a commission, not a 
right ; I am the offspring of distress, and every child of sorrow 
is my brother. While I have hands to hold, therefore, I will 
hold them open to mankind. But, Sir, my passions are my 
masters; they take me where they will; and oftentimes they 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 309 

leave to reason and virtue, nothing but my wishes and my 
sighs. 

Stock. Come, come, the man who can accuse, corrects him- 
self. 

Bel. Ah ! that is an office I am weary of. I wish a friend 
would take.it up: I would to heaven you had leisure for the 
employ. But, did you drive a trade to the four corners of the 
world, you would not find the task so toilsome as to keep me 
free from faults. 

Stock. Well, I am not discouraged. This candour tells me I 
should not have the fault of self-conceit to combat ; that, at least, 
is not among the number. 

Bel. No; If I knew that man on earth who thought more 
humbly of me than I do of myself, I would take his opinion and 
forego my own. 

Stock. And were I to choose a pupil, it should be one of your 
complexion : so if you will come along with me, we will agree 
upon your admission, and enter upon a course of lectures 
directly. 

Bel. With all my heart. 

II. — Lady Townly and Lady Grace. 

Lady T. Oh, my dear Lady Grace ! how could you leave 
me so unmercifully alone all this while ? 

Lady G. I thought my lord had been with you. 

Lady T. Why, yes — and therefore I wanted your relief; for 
he has been in such a fluster here — 

Lady G. Bless me ! for what ? 

Lady T. Only our usual breakfast ; we have each of us had 
our dish of matrimonial comfort this morning — we have been 
charming company. 

Lady G. I am mighty glad of it ; sure it must be a vast hap- 
piness when man and wife can give themselves the same turn 
of conversation ! 

Lady T. Oh, the prettiest thing in the world ! 

Lady G. Now I should be afraid, that whefe two people are 
every day together so, they must be often in want of something 
to talk upon. 

Lady T. Oh, my dear, you are the most mistaken in the 
world ! married people have things to talk of, child, that never 
enter into the imagination of others. — Why, here 's my lord and 
I, now, we have not been married above two short years, you 
know, and we have already eight or ten things constantly in 
bank, that whenever we want company, we can take up any one 
of them for two hours together, and the subject never the flatter; 
nay, if we have occasion for it, it will be as fresh next day, too, 
as it was the first hour it entertained us. 



310 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

Lady G. Certainly that must be vastly pretty. 

Lady T. Oh, there 's no life like it ! Why, t'other day, for 
example, when you dined abroad, my lord and I, after a pretty 
cheerful tete a tete meal, sat us down by the fireside, in an easy, 
indolent, pick-tooth way, for about a quarter of an hour, as if we 
had not thought of one another's being in the room. At last, 
stretching himself and yawning — My dear, says he, — aw — you 
came home very late last night. — 'Twas but just turned of two, 
says I. — I was in bed — aw — by eleven, says he. — So you are 
every night, says I. — Well, says he, I am amazed you can sit 
up so late. — How can you be amazed, says I, at a thing that 
happens so often ! — Upon which we entered into a conversation : 
and though this is a point which has entertained us above fifty 
times already, we always find so many pretty new things to say 
upon it, that I believe in my soul it will last as long as I live. 

Lady G. But pray, in such sort of family dialogues (though 
extremely well for passing the time) doesn't there now and then 
enter some little witty sort of bitterness ? 

Lady T. Oh, yes ! which does not do amiss at all. A smart 
repartee, with a zest of recrimination at the head of it, makes the 
prettiest sherbet. Ay, ay, if we did not mix a little of the acid 
with it, a matrimonial society would be so luscious, that nothing 
but an old liquorish prude would be able to bear it. 

Lady G. Well, certainly you have the most elegant taste — 

Lady T. Though, to tell you the truth, my dear, I rather 
think we squeezed a little too much lemon into it this bout ; for 
it grew so sour at last, that I think — I almost told him he was a 
fool — and he again — talked something oddly of — turning me out 
of doors. 

Lady G. Oh ! have a care of that. 

Lady T. Nay, if he should, I may thank my own wise father 
for it. 

L,ady G. How so ? 

Lady T. Why, when my good lord first opened his honour- 
able trenches before me, my unaccountable papa, in whose 
hands I then was, gave me up at discretion. 

Lady G. How do you mean ? 

Lady T. He said the wives of this age were come to that 
pass, that he would not desire even his own daughter should be 
trusted with pin-money; so that my whole train of separate 
inclinations are left entirely at the mercy of a husband's odd 
humours. 

Lady G. Why, that indeed is enough to make a woman of 
spirit look about her. 

Lady T. Nay, but to be serious, my dear, what would you 
really have a woman to do in my case ? 

Lady G. Why, if I had a sober husband, as you have, I 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 311 

would make myself the happiest wife in the world, by being as 
sober as he. 

Lady T. Oh, you wicked thing ! how can you teaze one at 
this rate, when you know he is so very sober, that (except giving 
me money) there is not one thing in the world he can do to please 
me. And I, at the same time, partly by nature, and partly, per- 
haps, by keeping the best company, do with my soul love almost 
every thing he hates. I dote upon assemblies : my heart bounds 
at a ball ; and at an opera — I expire. Then, I love play to dis- 
traction ; cards enchant me — and dice — put me out of my little 
wits. Dear, dear hazard — Oh, what a flow of spirits it gives 
one ! do you never play at hazard, child ? 

Lady G. Oh, never ! I don't think it sits well upon women ; 
there 's something so masculine, so much the air of a rake in it. 
You see how it makes the men swear and curse ; and, when a 
woman is thrown into the same passion — why — 

Lady T. That 's very true ; one is a little put to it, sometimes, 
not to make use of the same words to express it. 

Lady G. Well, and upon ill luck, pray what words are you 
really forced to make use of? 

Lady T, Why, upon a very hard case, indeed, when a sad 
wrong word is rising just to one's tongue's end, I give a great 
gulp and swallow it. 

Lady G. Well — and is it not enough to make you forswear 
play as long as you live ? 

Lady T. Oh, yes ; I have forsworn it. 

Lady G. Seriously? 

Lady T. Solemnly, a thousand times ; but then one is con- 
stantly forsworn. 

Lady G. And how can you answer that ? 

Lady T. My dear, what we say, when we are losers, we look 
upon to be no more binding than a lover's oath, or a great man's 
promise. But I beg pardon, child : I should not lead you so 
far into the world ; you are a prude, and design to live soberly. 

Lady G. Why, I confess my nature and my education do in 
a good degree incline me that way. 

Lady T. Well, how a woman of spirit (for you don't want 
that, child) can dream of living soberly, is to me inconceivable ; 
for you will marry, I suppose. 

Lady G. I can't tell but I may. 

Lady T. And won't you live in town ? 

Lady G. Half the year, I should like it very well. 

Lady T. My stars ! and you would really live in London 
half the year to be sober in it. ? 

Lady G. Why not ? 

Lady T. Why can't you as well go and be sober in the 
country ? 



312 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

Lady G. So I would — t'other half year. 

Lady T. And pray, what comfortable scheme of life would 
you form now for your summer and winter sober entertainments ? 

Lady G. A scheme that I think might very well content us. 

Lady T. Oh, of all things, let's hear it. 

Lady G. Why, in summer I could pass my leisure hours in 
riding, in reading, walking by a canal, or sitting at the end of it 
under a great tree ; in dressing, dining, chatting with an agree- 
able friend ; perhaps hearing a little music, taking a dish of tea, 
or a game at cards — soberly ; managing my family, looking into 
its accounts, playing with my children, if I had any ; or in a 
thousand other innocent amusements — soberly; and possibly, 
by these means, I might induce my husband to be as sober as 
myself. 

Lady T. Weil, my dear, thou art an astonishing creature ! 
For sure such a primitive antediluvian notion of life has not been 

in any head these thousand years. Under a great tree ! 

ha ! ha ! ha ! But I beg we may have the sober town scheme 

too — for I am charmed with the country one. 

Lady G. You shall, and I '11 try to stick to my sobriety there 
too* 

Lady T. Well, though I am sure it will give me the vapours, 
I must hear it. 

Lady G. Why, then, for fear of your fainting, madam, I will 
first so far come into the fashion, that I would never be dressed 
out of it — but still it should be soberly ; for I can't think it any 
disgrace to a woman of my private fortune not to wear her lace 
as fine as the wedding suit of a first dutchess ; though there is 
one extravagance I would venture to come up to. 

Lady T. Ay, now for it 

Lady G. I would every day be as clean as a bride. 

Lady T. Why, the men say that's a great step to be made 
one. Well, now you are drest, pray let's see to what pur- 
pose. 

Lady G. I would visit — that is, my real friends ; but as little 
for form as possible — I would go to court ; sometimes to an as- 
sembly, nay, play at quadrille — soberly. I would see all the 
good plays ; and because 'tis the fashion, now and then go to an 
opera ; but I would not expire there — for fear I should never go 
again. And lastly, I can't say, but for curiosity, if I liked my 
company, I might be drawn in once to a masquerade ; — and this, 
I think, is as far as any woman can go — soberly. 

Lady T. Well, if it had not been for that last piece of so- 
briety, 1 was just going to call for some surfeit-water. 

Lady G. Why, don't you think, with the farther aid of break- 
fasting, dining, taking the air, supping, sleeping, (not to say a 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 313 

word of devotion,) the four-and-twenty hours might roll over in 
a tolerable manner ? 

Lady T. Tolerable ; deplorable ! — Why, child, all you pro- 
pose is but to endure life ; now, I want to enjoy it. 

III. — Priuli and Jaffier. 

Pri. No more ! I '11 hear no more ! Be gone and leave me. 

Jaff. Not hear me ! By my sufferings, but you shall ! 
My lord, my lord ! I 'm not that abject wretch 
You think me. Patience ! where 's the distance throws 
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak 
In right, though proud oppression will not hear me ! 

Pri. Have you not wrong'd me ? 

Jaff. Could my nature e'er 
Have brook'd injustice or the doing wrong, 
I need not now thus low have bent myself, 
To gain a hearing from a cruel father. 
Wrong'd you? 

Pri. Yes, wrong'd me. In the nicest point, 
The honour of my house, you 've done me wrong 
When you first came home from travel, 
With such hopes as made you look'd on 
By ail men's eyes, a youth of expectation, 
Pleased with your seeming virtue, I received you ; 
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits ; 
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too, 
My very self was yours : you might have used me 
To your best service ; like an open friend 
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine ; 
When, in requital of my best endeavours, 
You treacherously practised to undo me ; 
Seduced the weakness of my age's darling, 
My only child, and stole her from my bosom. 

Jaff. 'Tis to me you owe her ; 
Childless you had been else, and in the grave 
Your name extinct; no more Priuli heard of. 
You may remember, scarce five years are past, 
Since in your brigantine you sail'd to see 
The Adriatic wedded by our Duke ; 
And I was with you. Your unskilful pilot 
Dash'd us upon a rock ; when to your boat 
You made for safety; enter'd first yourself: 
Th' affrighted Belvidera, following next, 
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side, 
Was by a wave wash'd off into the deep ; 
When instantly I plunged into the sea, 
27 



314 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

And buffeting the billows to her rescue, 
Redeem'd her life with half the loss of mine. 
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her, 
And, with the other, dash'd the saucy waves, 
That throng' d and press'd to rob me of my prize. 
I brought her ; gave her to your despairing arms : 
Indeed, you thank'd me ; but a nobler gratitude 
Rose in her soul ; for, from that hour, she loved me, 
Till, for her life, she paid me with herself. 

Pri. You stole her from me ; like a thief, you stole her 
At dead of night ; that cursed hour you chose 
To rifle me of all my heart held dear. 
May all your joys in her prove false as mine ; 
A sterile fortune and a barren bed 
Attend you both ; continual discord make 
Your days and nights bitter and grievous still ; 
May the hard hand of a vexatious need 
Oppress and grind you ; till at last, you find 
The curse of disobedience all your portion. 

Jaff. Half of your curse you have bestow'd in vain : 
Heaven has already crown' d our faithful loves 
With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty. 
May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire, 
And happier than his father. 

Pri. No more. 

Jaff. Yes, all ; and then adieu forever. 

There 's not a wretch, that lives on common charity, 

But 's happier than I : for I have known 

The luscious sweets of plenty ; every night 

Have slept with soft content about my head, 

And never waked but to a joyful morning; 

Yet now must fall ; like a full ear of corn, 

Whose blossom 'scaped, yet 's wither'd in the ripening. 

Pri. Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ; 
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall, 
Those pageants of thy folly ; 
Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife 
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state : 
Then to some suburb cottage both retire : 
Drudge to feed loathsome life : get brats and starve. 
Home, home, I say. — [Exit, 

Jaff. Yes, if my heart would let me — 
This proud, this swelling heart ; home would I go, 
But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, 
Fill'd and damm'd up with gaping creditors. 
I 've now not fifty ducats in the world ; 
Yet still I am in love, and pleased with ruin. 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 315 

O, Belvidera ! Oh, she is my wife ! — 

And we will bear our wayward fate together — 

But ne'er know comfort more. 



IV. — Boniface and Aimwell. 

Bon. This way, this way, sir. 

Aim. You 're my landlord, I suppose. 

Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will Boniface; pretty well known 
upon this road, as the saying is. 

Aim. O, Mr. Boniface, your servant. 

Bon. O, sir, What will your honour please to drink, as 

the saying is ? 

Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much famed for 
ale : I think I '11 taste that. 

Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tuns of the best ale in 
Staffordshire : 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as amber, 
and strong as brandy ; and will be just fourteen years old the 
fifth day of next March, old style. 

Aim. You 're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale. 

Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my children ; 
I'll show you such ale! — Here, tapster, broach number 1706, 
as the saying is — Sir, you shall taste my Anno Domini. — I 
have lived in Litchfield, man and boy, above eight-and-fifty 
years, and I believe have not consumed eight-and-fifty ounces of 
meat. 

Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess by your bulk. 

Bon. Not in my life, sir ; I have fed purely upon ale ; I have 
eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale. [Enter 

tapster, with a tankard.'] Now, sir, you shall see Your 

worship's health ; [drinks'] — Ha ! delicious, delicious ! — Fancy 
it Burgundy, only fancy it, — and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart. 

Aim. [Drinks.] 'Tis confounded strong. 

Bon. Strong ! it must be so, or how should we be strong that 
drink it! 

Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord ? 

Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir : but it kill'd 
my wife, poor woman, as the saying is. 

Aim. How came that to pass ? 

Bon. I don't know how, sir, — she would not let the ale take 
its natural course, sir; she was for qualifying it every now and 
then with a dram, as the saying is ; and an honest gentleman 
that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen 
bottles of usquebaugh — but the poor woman was never well 
after — but, however, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know. 

Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her ? 



316 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

Bon. My lady Bountiful said so — she, good lady, did what 
could be done : she cured her of three tympanies ; but the fourth 
carried her off. But she's happy, and I'm contented, as the 
sayi.ig is. 

Aim. Who is that lady Bountiful you mentioned ? 

Bon. Odd's my life, sir, we '11 drink her health : [drinks'] — 
My lady Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last hus- 
band, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand pounds a 
year ; and I believe she lays out one half on't in charitable uses, 
for the good of her neighbours. 

Aim. Has the lady been any other way useful in her genera- 
tion ? 

Bon. Yes, sir, she has had a daughter by Sir Charles ; the 
finest woman in all our country, and the greatest fortune. She 
has a son, too, by her first husband ; 'Squire Sullen, who mar- 
ried a fine lady from London t'other day ; if you please, sir, 
we '11 drink his health [drinks']. 

Mm. What sort of a man is he ? 

Bon. Why, sir, the man 's well enough ; says little, thinks 
less, and does — nothing at all, faith: but he's a man of great 
estate, and values nobody. 

Aim. A sportsman, I suppose ? 

Bon. Yes, he 's a man of pleasure ; he plays at whist, and 
smokes his pipe eight-and-forty hours together sometimes. 

Aim. A fine sportsman, truly ! — And married, you say ? 

Bon. Ay ; and to a curious woman, sir. — But he 's my land- 
lord ; and so a man, you know, would not Sir, my humble 

service to you [drinks], — Though I value not a farthing what 
he can do to me ; I pay him his rent at quarter-day : I have a 
good running trade — I have but one daughter, and I can give 
her — but no matter for that. 

Aim. You 're very happy, Mr. Boniface ; pray, What other 
company have you in town? 

Bon. A power of fine ladies ; and then we have the French 
officers. 

Aim. O, that 's right ; you have a good many of those gentle- 
men : pray, how do you like their company ? 

Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had as 
many more of them. They 're full of money, and pay double 
for every thing they have. They know, sir, that we paid good 
round taxes for the taking of 'em : and so they are willing to re- 
imburse us a little ; one of 'em lodges in my house. [Bell rings] 
— I beg your worship's pardon — I '11 wait on you again in half 
a minute. 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 317 



V. — Lovegold and Lappet. 

Love. All's well hitherto; my dear money is safe. — Is it 
you, Lappet ? 

Lap. I should rather ask if it be you, sir ; why, you look so 
young and vigorous 

Love. Do I? Do I? 

Lap. Why, you grow younger and younger every day, sir ; 
you never looked half so young in your life, sir, as you do now. 
Why, sir, I know fifty young fellows of five-and-twenty, that are 
older than you are. 

Love. That may be, that may be, Lappet, considering the 
lives they lead ; and yet I am a good ten years above fifty. 

Lap. Well, and what 's ten years above fifty ? 'Tis the very 
flower of a man's age. Why, sir, you are now in the very prime 
of your life. 

Love. Very true, that 's very true, as to understanding ; but I 
am afraid, could I take off twenty years, it would do me no harm 
with the ladies, Lappet. — How goes on our affair with Mariana ? 
Have you mentioned any thing about what her mother can give 
her? For nowadays nobody marries a woman, unless she brings 
something with her besides a petticoat. 

Lap. Sir, why, sir, this young lady will be worth to you as 
good a thousand pounds a year as ever was told. 

Love. How ! A thousand pounds a year ? 

Lap. Yes, sir. There 's in the first place, the article of a 
table ; she has a very little stomach ;■ — she docs not eat above an 
ounce in a fortnight; and then, as to the quality of what she ea ;, 
you '11 have no need of a French cook upon her account. As for 
sweetmeats, she mortally hates them ; so there is the article of 
desserts wiped off ail at once. You '11 have no need of a con- 
fectioner, who would be eternally bringing in bills for preserves, 
conserves, biscuits, comfits, and jellies, of which half a dozen 
ladies would swallow you ten pounds worth at a meal. This, I 
think, we may very moderately reckon at two hundred pounds a 
year at least. — For clothes, she has been bred up at such a 
plainness in them, that should we allow but for three birth-night 
suits a year, saved, which are the least a town lady would ex- 
pect, there go a good two hundred pounds a year more. — For 
jewels (of which she hates the very sight), the yearly interest of 
what you must lay out in them would amount to one hundred 
pounds. Lastly, she has an utter detestation for play, at which 
I have known several moderate ladies lose a good two thousand 
pounds a year. — Now, let us take only the fourth part of that, 
which amounted to five hundred, to which if we add two hun- 
dred pounds on the table account, two hundred pounds in clothes, 
27* 



318 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

and one hundred pounds in jewels — there is, sir, your thousand 
pounds a year, in hard money. 

Love. Ay, ay, these are pretty things; it must be confessed, 
very pretty things ; but there is nothing real in them. 

Lap. How, Sir ! Is it not something real to bring you a vast 
store of sobriety, the inheritance of a love for simplicity of dress, 
and a vast acquired fund of hatred for play? 

Love. This is downright raillery, Lappet, to make me up a 
fortune out of the expenses she won't put me to. But there is 
another thing that disturbs me. You know this girl is young, 
and young people generally love one another's company ; it 
would ill agree with a person of my temper to keep an assembly 
for all the young rakes and flaunting girls in town. 

Lap. Ah, Sir, how little do you know of her ! This is an- 
other particularity that I had to tell you of; — she has a most 
terrible aversion to young people, and loves none but persons of 
your years. I would advise you, above all things, to take care 
not to appear too young. She insists on sixty at least. She 
says that fifty-six years are not able to content her. 

Love. This humour is a little strange, methinks. 

Lap. She carries it further, Sir, than can be imagined. She 
has in her chamber several pictures ; but, what do you think 
they are ? None of your smockfaced young fellows, your Ado- 
nises, your Parises, and your Apollos. No, Sir, you see nothing 
there but your handsome figures of Saturn, king Priam, old 
Nestor, and good father Anchises upon his son's shoulders. 

Love. Admirable ! This is more than I could have hoped ; to 
say the truth, had I been a woman, I should never have loved 
young fellows. 

Lap. I believe you : pretty sort of stuff, indeed, to be in love 
with your young fellows! Pretty masters, indeed, with their 
fine complexions, and their fine feathers ! 

Love. And do you really think me pretty tolerable ? 

Lap. Tolerable ! You are ravishing. If your picture was 
drawn by a good hand, Sir, it would be invaluable ! Turn about 
a little, if you please — there, what can be more charming? Let 
me see you walk — there's a person for you; tall, straight, free, 
and degagee. Why, Sir, you have no fault about you. 

Love. Not many — hem — hem — not many, I thank heaven; 
only a few rheumatic pains now and then, and a small catarrh 
that seizes me sometimes. 

Lap. Ah, Sir, that 's nothing ; your catarrh sits very well upon 
you, and you cough with a very good grace. 

Love. But tell me, what does Mariana say of my person. 

Lap. She has a particular pleasure in talking of it; and I as- 
sure you, Sir, I have not been backward, on all such occasions, 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 3l9 

to blazon forth your merit, and to make her sensible how advan- 
tagee 5 a match yon will be to her. 

L: ve. 1 od did very well, and I am obliged to you. 

Lap. But, Sir, I hare a small favour :: ask :: you : — I have 
a lawsuit depending, which I am on the very brink of losing, for 
waot of a little money : ~he looks gravely~\ and you could easily 
procure my success, if you had the least friendship for me. Y a 
can't imagine, Sir, the pleasure she takes in talking of you: [he 
ed] Ah '. how you wiii delight her, how yoni venera- 
ble mien will charm her ! She will never be able to withstand 
yon. But indeed, Sir, this lawsuit will be a terrible conse- 
quence tome: grave ogam] I am ruined if I lose it; 
h a very small matter might prevent — ah ! Sir, had you but 
seen :he raptures with which she heard me talk of you. 'He re- 
sumes his gaiety. ~\ How pleasure sparkled in her eyes at the 
recital of your gooci qualities ! In short, to discover a secret to 
you, which I promised to conceal, I have worked up her imagi- 
nation till she is downright impatient of having the match con- 
cluded. 

Love. Lappet, you have acted a very friendly pan ; ar.d I 
own that I have all the obligations in the world to you. 

Lap. I beg you would give me this little assistance, Sir : [he 
serious 7 ] it will set me on my feet, and I shall be eternally 
obliged to you. 

Love. Farewell; I 'il go and finis';: my despatches. 

Lap. I assure you, Sir, you could neve: assist me in a greater 
necess 

Lou. I most give some orders about a particular aSair. 

Lap. I would not importune you, Sir, if I was not forced by 
the last extremity. 

Love. I expect the tailor, about turning my coat : — don": 
think this coat will look well enough turned, and with new but- 
tons, for a wedding soil ! 

Lap. For pity's sake. Sir, don't refuse me this small favour: 
I shall be undone, indeed. Sir. I: it were but so small a mattei 
as ten pounds. Sir — 

Love. I think I hear the tailor's voice. 

Lap. If it were but five pounds, Si: : but three pounds, Sir; 
nav, Sir, a single guinea would be :: service for a day or two. 
~.;5 he offers to go out on either side, he intercepts him.~_ 

Love. I must go, I can't stay hark, there ! Somebody 

calk me — I am very much obliged to you, indeed ; I am very 
much obliged to you. [Exit. 

Lap. Go to the devil, like a covetous good for nothing "Villain 
m are. Ramilie is in the right: however, I shall not : nit 

- ::£Fair: for though I get nothing him, I am sure of my 

srd from I » ie. 



320 LESSONS IN [PART II. 



VI. — Cardinal Wolsey and Cromwell 

Wol. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot — 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
These many summers in a sea of glory ; 
But far beyond my depth ; my high blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream that must forever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye ! 
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! 
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 
That sweet regard of princes, and his ruin, 
More pangs and fears than war or women have ; 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again. [Enter Cromwell. 

Why, how now, Cromwell ? 

Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir. 

Wol. What, amazed 
At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder 
A great man should decline ? Nay, if you weep, 
I'm fallen indeed. 

Crom. How does your Grace ? 

Wol. Why, well; 
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
I know myself now, and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities ; 
A still and quiet conscience. The king has eased me, 
I humbly thank his Grace ; and from these shoulders, 
These ruined pillars, out of pity taken 
A load would sink a navy, too much honour. 
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden 
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! 

Crom. I 'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it. 

Wol. I hope I have : I 'm able, now, methinks, 
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, 
T' endure more miseries, and greater far, 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 321 

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 
What news abroad ? 

Crom. The heaviest and the worst 
Is your displeasure with the king. 

Wol. God bless him ! 

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
Lord Chancellor in your place. 

Wol. That 's somewhat sudden 

But he 's a learned man. May he continue 
Long in his highness' favour, and do justice, 
For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, 
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, 
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him ! 
What more ? 

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome ; 
Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. That 's news, indeed ! 

Crom. Last, that the lady Anne, 
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 
This day was view'd in open as his queen, 
Going to chapel ; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 

Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down : O Crom- 
well ! 
The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost for ever. 
No sun shall ever usher forth my honours, 
Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
Upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Cromwell ; 
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
To be thy lord and master : seek the king — 
(That sun, I pray, may never set !) I 've told him 
W^hat and how true thou art ; he will advance thee ; . 
Some little memory of me will stir him, 
(I know his noble nature) not to let 
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, 
Neglect him not ; make use now and provide 
For thine own future safety. 

Crom. Oh, my lord ! 
Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master? 
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord ! 
The king shall have my service ; but my prayers 
For ever and for ever shall be yours. 

Wol. Cromwell — I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries — but thou hast forced me, 



322 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman — 

Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 

And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 

Of me must more be heard — say then I taught thee : 

Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 

Found thee a wa]/, cut of his wreck, to rise in ; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. 

Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 

(Though the image of his Maker) hope to win by 't ? 

Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that wait thee : 

Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not. 

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 

Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king 

And, prithee, lead me in 

There take an inventory of all I have ; 

To the last penny, 't is the king's. My robe, 

And mine integrity to heaven, is all 

I dare now call my own. Oh, Cromwell, Cromwell ! 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 

I served my king — he would not, in mine age, 

Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Crom. Good sir, have patience. 

Wol. So I have. Farewell 
The hopes of court ! My hopes in heaven do dwell. 

VII. — Sir Charles and Lady Racket. 

Lady R. O la! I'm quite fatigued — I can hardly move — 
Why don't you help me, you barbarous man ? 

Sir C. There — take my arm — 

Lady R. But I won't be laughed at — I don't love you. 

Sir C. Don't you ? 

Lady R. No. Dear me ! This glove ! Why don't you help 
me off with my glove? Pshaw! You awkward thing; let it 
alone ; you an't fit to be about me. Reach me a chair — you 
have no compassion for me. I am so glad to sit down — Why 
do you drag me to routs? — You know I hate 'em. 

Sir C. Oh ! There 's no existing, no breathing, unless one 
does as other people of fashion do. 

Lady R. But I 'm out of humour — I lost all my money. 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 323 

Sir C. How much ? 

Lady R. Three hundred. 

Sir C. Never fret for that — I don't value three hundred 
pounds, to contribute to your happiness. 

Lady R. Don't you ? Not value three hundred pounds to 
please me ? 

Sir C. You know I don't. 

Lady R. Ah ! You fond fool ! But I hate gaming — it almost 
metamorphoses a woman into a fury. Do you know that I was 
frightened at myself several times to-night? I had a huge oath 
at the very tip of my tongue. 

Sir C. Had you ? 

Lady R. I caught myself at it — and so I bit my lips. And 
then I was crammed up in a corner of the room, with such a 
strange party, at a whist table, looking at black and red spots. 
Did you mind 'em? 

Sir C. You know I was busy elsewhere. 

Lady R. There was that strange unaccountable woman, Mrs. 
Nightshade. She behaved so strangely to her husband — a poor, 
inoffensive, good-natured, good sort of a good-for-nothing kind of 
a man. But she so teazed him — "How could you play that 
card ? Ah, you 've a head, and so has a pin. You 're a num- 
skull, you know you are — Ma'am he 's the poorest head in the 
world; he does not know what he is about — you know you 
don't. Ah, fie ! I 'm ashamed of you !" 

Sir C. She has served to divert you, I see. 

Lady R. And then, to crown all, there was my lady Clackit, 
who runs on with an eternal volubility of nothing, out of all sea- 
son, time, and place. In the very midst of the game she begins 
—"Lard, Ma'am, I was apprehensive I should not be able to 
wait on your ladyship — my poor little dog, Pompey — the 
sweetest thing in the world ! — A spade led ! There 's the knave. 
— I was fetching a walk, Me'em, the other morning in the Park 
— a fine frosty morning it was. I love frosty weather of all things 
— let me look at the last trick — and so, Me'em, little Pompey— 
and if your ladyship was to see the dear creature pinched with 
the frost, and mincing his steps along the Mall — with his pretty 
little innocent face — I vow I don't know what to play. — And so, 
Me'em, while I was talking to Captain Flimsey — your ladyship 
knows Captain Flimsey. — Nothing but rubbish in my hand ! — I 
can't help it. — And so, Me'em, five odious frights of dogs beset 
my poor little Pompey — the dear creature has the heart of a lion ; 
but who can resist five at once ? And so Pompey barked for 
assistance — the hurt he received was upon his chest — the doctor 
would not advise him to venture out till the wound is healed, for 
fear of an inflammation. — Pray what 's trumps ?" 

Sir C. My dear, you 'd make a most excellent actress. 



324 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Lady R. Well, now, let 's go to rest — but. Sir Charles, how 
shockingly you played that last rubber, when I stood looking 
over you ! 

Sir C. My love, I played the truth of the game. 

Lady JR. No, indeed, my dear, you played it wrong. 

Sir C. Po ! Nonsense ! You don't understand it. 

Lady R. I beg your pardon, I 'm allowed to play better than 
you. 

Sir C. All conceit, my dear ! I was perfectly right. 

Lady R. No such thing, Sir Charles ; the diamond was the 
play. 

Sir C. Po ! Po ! Ridiculous ! The club was the card, 
against the world. 

Lady R. Oh ! No, no, no — I say it was the diamond. 

Sir C. Madam, I say it was the club. 

Lady R. What do you fly into such a passion for ? 

Sir C. Death and fury ! do you think I don't know what 
I 'm about ? I tell you once more, the club was the judgment 
of it. 

Lady R. May be so — have it your own way. 

Sir C. Vexation ! You 're the strangest woman that ever 
lived ; there's no conversing with you. Look ye here, my lady 
Racket — 'tis the clearest case in the world — I'll make it plain 
in a moment. 

Lady R. Well, Sir ; ha, ha, ha ! 

Sir C. I had four cards left — a trump had led — they were 
six — no, no, no — they were seven, and we nine — then, you 
know — the beauty of the play was to — 

Lady R. Well, now, 'tis amazing to me that you can't see it. 
Give me leave, Sir Charles — your left-hand adversary had led 
his last trump — and he had before finessed the club, and roughed 
the diamond — now if you had put on your diamond — 

Sir C. But, Madam, we played for the odd trick. 

Lady R. And sure the play for the odd trick — 

Sir C. Death and fury ! Can 't you hear me 1 

Lady R. Go on, sir. 

Sir C. Hear me, I say. Will you hear me ? 

Lady R. I never heard the like in my life. 

Sir C. Why then you are enough to provoke the patience of 
a Stoic. Very well, madam ! You know no more of the game 
than your father's leaden Hercules on the top of the house. 
You know no more of whist than he does of gardening. 

Lady R. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Sir C. You're a vile woman, and I '11 not sleep another night 
under one roof with you. 

Lady R. As you please, sir. 

Sir C. Madam, it shall be as I please — I '11 order my chariot 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 325 

this moment. — [Going."] I know how the cards should be 
played as well as any man in England, that let me tell you — 
[Going.] And when your family were standing behind coun- 
ters measuring out tape, and bartering for Whitechapel needles, 
my ancestors, my ancestors, Madam, w r ere squandering away 
whole estates at cards; whole estates, my lady Racket. — [She 
hums a tune.] Why, then, by all that 's dear to me, I '11 never 
exchange another word with you, good, bad, or indifferent. Look 
ye, my lady Racket — thus it stood — the trump being led, it was 
then my business — 

Lady R. To play the diamond, to be sure. 

Sir C. I have done with you for ever ; and so you may tell 
your father. [Exit.] 

Lady R. What a passion the gentleman is in ! Ha ! ha ! 1 
promise him I'll not give up my judgment. 

Re-enter Sir Charles. 

Sir C. My lady Racket — look'ye Ma'am, once more, out of 
pure good nature — 

Lady R. Sir, I am convinced of your good nature. 

Sir C. That, and that only, prevails with me to tell you, the 
club was the play. 

Lady R. Well, be it so — I have no objection. 

Sir C. 'Tis the clearest point in the world we were nine, 

and — 

Lady R. And for that very reason, you know the club was 
the best in the house. 

Sir C. There 's no such thing as talking to you. You 're 

a base woman — I'll part with you forever ; you may live here 
with your father, and admire his fantastical evergreens, till you 
grow as fantastical yourself — I'll set out for London this instant. 
— [Stops at the door.] The club was not the best in the house. 

Lady R. How calm you are ! Well, I '11 go to bed. Will 
you come ? You had better — Poor Sir Charles. 

[Looks and laughs, then exit.] 

Sir C. That case is provoking — [Crosses to the opposite door 
where she went out] I tell you the diamond was not the play ; 
and here I take my final leave of you — [Walks back as fast as 
he can] I am resolved upon it ; and I know the club was not 
the best in the house. 

VIII. — Brutus and Cassius. 

Cas. That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this ; 
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein my letter (praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man) was slighted of. 
28 



326 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case. 

Cas. At such a time as this, is it not meet 
That every nice offence should bear its comment ? 

Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm, 
To sell and mart your offices for gold, 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. 

Cas. Chastisement? 

Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember. 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake 1 
What ! shall one of us, 

That struck the foremost man of all this world, 
But for supporting robbers ; shall we now 
Contaminate our ringers with base bribes ? 
And sell the mighty space of our large honours, 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus 1 
I had rather be a dog and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me : 
I '11 not endure it. You forget yourself 
To hedge me in : I am a soldier, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself, 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ! You are not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more : I shall forget myself: 
Have mind upon your health : tempt me no farther. 

Bru. Away, slight man ! 

Cas. Is 't possible ! 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. Must I endure all this ! 

Bru. All this ! Ay, more. Fret till your proud heart breaks. 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humour ! 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 327 

I '11 use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

C 3. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier ; 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well. For my own part 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus ; 
I said an elder soldier, not a better. 
Did I say better ? 

Bru. If you did I care not. 

Cas. When Cassar lived he durst not thus have moved me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not ! 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ! Durst not tempt him ! 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love. 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; 
I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants, their vile trash, 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions ; 
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 
Dash him in pieces. 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not ; he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart. 
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities; 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not. Still you practise them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 



328 LESSONS IN [part II . 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come Anthony ! and young Octavius, come ! 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius : 

For Cassius is a-weary of the world 

Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
Check'd like a bondman ; all his faults observed, 

Set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd, by rote 

To cast into my teeth. There is my dagger, 

And here my naked breast within, a heart 

Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold ; 

If that thou need'st a Roman's, take it forth : 

I that denied thee gold, will give my heart. 

Strike as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know, 

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'st him better 

Than ever thou lov'st Cassius. 

Bru. Sheath your dagger, 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope, 
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 
O Cassius ! You are yoked with a lamb, 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood ifl-temper'd vexeth him ! 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart too.— \\Embracing.~] 

Cas. O Brutus ! 

Bru. What's the matter? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
When the rash humour which my mother gave me, 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He '11 think your mother chides, and leave you so. 



II. SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES. 

I. — Hamlet's Advice to the Players. 

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you ; 
trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our 
players do, I had as lief the town-crier had spoken my lines. 
And do not saw the air too much with your hands ; but use all 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 329 

gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, 
whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a tem- 
perance, that may give it smoothness. Oh ! it offends me to the 
soul, to hear a robustious, periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to 
tatters, to very jags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, 
(for the most part) are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb 
shows and noise. Pray you avoid it. 

Be not too tame, neither ; but let your own discretion be your 
tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action ; with 
this special observance, that you overstep not the modesty of na- 
ture; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing: 
whose end is — to hold as 'twere, the mirror up to nature ; to 
show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very 
age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this 
overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, 
cannot but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of one of 
which must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of 
others. Oh ! there be players that I have seen play, and heard 
others praise, and that highly, that, neither having the accent of 
Christian, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so 
strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of Nature's 
journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imi- 
tated humanity so abominably. 

II. — Bollds Address to the Peruvians. 

My brave associates — partners of my toil, my feelings, and 
my fame ! — can Rolla's words add vigour to the virtuous ener- 
gies which inspire your hearts? No! — you have judged as I 
have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders 
would delude you. — Your generous spirit has compared as 
mine has, the motives which, in war like this, can animate their 
minds, and ours. They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for 
power, for plunder, and extended rule :-— we for our country, 
our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom 
they fear, and obey a power which they hate: — we serve a 
monarch whom we love, a God whom we adore. — Whene'er 
they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress ! Where'er 
they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. They 
boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, 
and free us from the yoke of error ! — Yes : — they will give 
enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves 
of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection — 
yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs — covering and de- 
vouring them ! They call on us to barter all of good we have 
enhanced and proved, for the desperate chance of something 
better which they promise. Be our plain answer this : — The 
28* 



330 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

throne we honour is the people's choice — the laws we reverence 
are our brave fathers' legacy — the faith we follow teaches us to 
live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope of 
bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them 
too, we seek no change ; and least of all such cjiange as they 
would bring us. 

III. — Douglas 1 Account of Himself. 

My name is Norval. On the Grampian hills 
My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal swain, 
Whose constant cares were to increase his store, 
And keep his only son, myself, at home. 
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd 
To follow to the field some warlike Jord ; 
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied. 
This moon which rose last night, round as my shield, 
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light, 
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills, 
Rush'd like a torrent, down upon the vale, 
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled 
For safety and for succour. I alone, 
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, 
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd 
The road he took ; then hastened to my friends, 
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, 
I met advancing. The pursuit I led, 
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. 
We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn, 
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief, 
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear. 
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd 
The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard 
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers, 
To lead their warriors to the Carron side, 
I left my father's house, and took with me 
A chosen servant to conduct my steps — 
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. 
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers, 
And heaven directed, came this day to do 
The happy deed that gilds my humble name. 

IV. — Douglas 1 Account of the Hermit. 

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote 
And inaccessible, by shepherds trod, 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 331 

In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 

A hermit lived ; a melancholy man, 

Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains. 

Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 

Did they report him ; the cold earth his bed, 

Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. 

I went to see him ; and my heart was touch'd 

With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake ; 

And, entering on discourse, such stories told, 

As made me oft revisit his sad cell ; 

For he had been a soldier in his youth, 

And fought in famous battles, when the peers 

Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, 

Against th' usurping infidel display'd 

The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land. 

Pleased with my admiration, and the fire 

His speech struck from me, the old man would shake 

His years away, and act his young encounters : 

Then, having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him down, 

And all the live-long day discourse of war. 

To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf 

He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts; 

Described the motions, and explain'd the use 

Of the deep column and the lengthen'd line, 

The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm ; 

For all that Saracen or Christian knew 

Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 

V. — Sempronius' Speech for War. 

My voice is still for war. 
Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate, 
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death ! 
No — let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 
And, at the head of our remaining troops, 
Attack the foe, break through the thick array 
Of his throng'd legions, and charge home upon him. 
Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, 
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
Rise, Fathers, rise ; 'tis Rome demands your help : 
Rise and revenge her slaughter'd citizens, 
Or share their fate. The corpse of half her senate 
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
Sit here, deliberating in cold debates, 
If we should sacrifice our lives to honour, 
Or w 7 ear them out in servitude and chains. 



332 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Rouse up, for shame ! Our brothers of Pharsalia 
Point out their wounds, and cry aloud, To battle : 
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, 
And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged among us. 

VI. — Lucius' Speech for Peace. 

My thoughts, T must confess, are turn'd on peace ; 
Already have our quarrels fill'd the world 
With widows and with orphans : Scythia mourns 
Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions 
Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome : 
'Tis time to sheath the sword, and spare mankind. 
'Tis not Caesar, but the gods, my Fathers ! 
The gods declare against us, and repel 
Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle 
(Prompted by blind revenge and wild despair) 
Were to refute th' awards of Providence, 
And not to rest in heaven's determination. 
Already have we shown our love to Rome : 
Now let us show submission to the gods. 
We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, 
But free the commonwealth. When this end fails, 
Arms have no further use. Our country's cause, 
That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands, 
And bids us not delight in Roman blood 
Unprofitably shed. What men could do, 
Is done already. Heaven and earth will witness, 
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 

VII. — Hotspur's Account of the Fop, 

My liege, I deny no prisoners, 
But I remember, when the fight was done, 
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, 
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
Came there a certain lord ; neat ; trimly dress'd ; 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd, 
Show'd like a stubble land, at harvest home. 
He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
And, 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held 
A pouncet box, which, ever and anon, 

He gave his nose. 

And still he smiled and talk'd : 

And, as the soldiers bare dead bodies by, 

He call'd them " untaught knaves, unmannerly, 

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 333 

Betwixt the wind and his nobility." 

With many holiday and lady terms 

He question'd me ; among the rest, demanded 

My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf. 

1 then, all smarting with my wounds, being gall'd 

To be so pester'd with a popinjay, 

Out of my grief and my impatience, 

Answer'd — negligently — I know not what— - 

He should or should not ; for he made me mad, 

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, 

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (heaven save the mark) 

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth 

Was spermaceti for an inward bruise ; 

And that it was a great pity, (so it was) 

This villanous saltpetre should be digg'd 

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd 

So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns, 

He would himself have been a soldier. 

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 

I answer'd indirectly, as I said ; 

And I beseech you, let not this report 

Come current for an accusation, 

Betwixt my love, and your high Majesty. 

VIII. — Hotspur's Soliloquy on the Contents of a Letter. 

" But, for mine own part, my Lord, I could be well contented 
to be there in respect of the love I bear your house." — He could 
be contented to be there ! Why is he not then ? In respect of 
the love he bears our house ? He shows in this, he loves his 
own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some 
more. " The purpose you undertake is dangerous." — Why 
that's certain : 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink : 
but I tell you, my lord Fool, out of this nettle danger, we pluck 
this flower safely. " The purpose you undertake is dangerous ; 
the friends you have named, uncertain ; the time itself, unsorted ; 
and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an 
opposition." — Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, 
you are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack- 
brain is this ! Our plot is as good a plot as ever was laid ; our 
friends true and constant ; a good plot, good friends and full of 
expectation ; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a 
frosty-spirited rogue is this ! Why, my lord of York commends 
the plot, and the general course of the action. By this hand, if 
I were now by this rascal, I would brain him with his lady's 



334 LESSONS IN [part II. 

fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself: Lord Ed- 
mund Mortimer, my lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is 
there not, besides, the Douglasses ? Have I not al] their letters, 
to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month ? and are 
there not some of them set forward already ? What a pagan 
rascal is this ! an infidel ! — Ha ! you shall see now, in very sin- 
cerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the king, and lay open 
all our proceedings. Oh ! I could divide myself, and go to buf- 
fets, for moving such a dish of skimmed milk with so honour- 
able an action. — Hang him ! let him tell the king. We are pre- 
pared. I will set forward to-night. 

IX. — Othello 1 s Apology for his Marriage. 

Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors : 
My very noble and approved good masters : 
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 
It is most true ; true, I have married her : 
The very head and front of my offending 
Hath this extent ; no more. Rude am I in speech, 
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace : 
For since these arms of mine had seven year's pith, 
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used 
Their dearest action in the tented field ; 
And little of this great world can I speak, 
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle ; 
And therefore, little shall I grace my cause, 
In speaking of myself. Yet by your patience, 
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver, 
Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 
What conjuration, and what mighty magic, 
(For such proceedings I am charged withal,) 
I won his daughter with. 

Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; 
Still question'd me the story of my life, 
From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
That I had past. 

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days 
To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances : 
Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach : 
Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, 
And with it all my travel's history. 

All these to hear 

Would Desdemona seriously incline ; 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 335 

But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; 

Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 

She 'd come again, and with a greedy ear 

Devour up my discourse. Which I observing, 

Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 

To draw from her a prayer of earnest love, 

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate ; 

Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 

But not distinctly. I did consent : 

And often did beguile her of her tears, 

When I did speak of some distressful stroke 

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, 

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. 

She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange : 

'Twas pitiful ; 'twas wond'rous pitiful ; 

She wish'd she had not heard it ; yet she wish'd 

That heaven had made her such a man. She thank'd me; 

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 

I should but teach him how to tell my story, 

And that would woo her. On this hint I spake : 

She loved me for the dangers I had passed ; 

And I loved her that she did pity them. — 

This only is the witchcraft I have used. 

X. — Henry /F.'s Soliloquy on Sleep. 

How many thousands of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep ! — O, gentle sleep ! 
Nature's soft nurse ! how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 
Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, 
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, 
Under the canopies of costly state, 
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody ? 
O thou dull god ! Why liest thou with the vile, 
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch 
A watch-case to a common 'larum bell? 
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast, 
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 
And in the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the tops, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deaf'ning clamours to the slipp'ry shrouds, 



336 LESSONS IN [part II. 

That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? 

Canst thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose 

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, 

And in the calmest and the stillest night, 

With all appliances and means to boot, 

Deny it to a king ? — Then happy, lowly clown ! 

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 

XI. — Captain BobadiVs Method of defeating an Army. 

I will tell you, sir, by the way of private and under seal, I 
am a gentleman; and live here obscure, and to myself: but 
were I known to his Majesty and the Lords, observe me, I would 
undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of 
the state, not only to spare the entire lives of his subjects in 
general, but to save the one-half, nay, three-fourths of his yearly 
charge in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And 
how would I do it, think you ? Why, thus, sir — I would select 
nineteen more to myself, throughout the land ; gentlemen they 
should be ; of good spirit, strong and able constitution. I would 
choose them by an instinct that I have. And I would teach these 
nineteen the special rules ; as your punto, your reverso, your 
stoccata, your imbrocata, your passado, your montonto, till t.hey 
could all play very near, or altogether as well as myself. This 
done ; say the enemy were forty thousand strong. We twenty 
would come into the field the tenth of March, or thereabouts, and 
we would challenge twenty of the enemy ; they could not, in 
their honour, refuse us. Well — we would kill them ; challenge 
twenty more — kill them ; twenty more — kill them ; twenty more 
— kill them, too. And thus would we kill, every man his ten a 
day — that's ten-score: ten-score — that's two hundred ; two hun- 
dred a day — five days, a thousand : forty thousand — forty times 
five — five times forty — two hundred days kill them all up by 
computation. And this I will venture my poor gentleman-like 
carcass to perform, (provided there be no treason practised upon 
us,) by fair and discreet manhood; that is, civilly — by the 
sword. 



XII. — Soliloquy of Hamlet'' s Uncle, on the Murder of his 
Brother. 

Oh ! my offence is rank ; it smells to heaven ; 
It hath the primal, eldest curse, upon it ! 

A brother's murder ! Pray I cannot, 

Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill — 
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent ; 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 337 

And like a man to double business bound, 

I stand in pause where I shall first begin — 

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand 

Were thicker than itself with brother's blood — 

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens 

To wash it white as snow ? Whereto serves mercy, 

But to confront the visage of offence ? 

And what 's in prayer, but this twofold force ? 

To be forestall'd ere we come to fall — 

Or pardon'd, being down. — Then I'll look up. 

My fault is past. — But, Oh ! what form of prayer 

Can serve my turn ? Forgive me my foul murder. 

That cannot be, since I am still possess'd 

Of those effects for which I did the murder — 

My crown, my own ambition, and my queen. 

May one be pardon'd, and retain th' offence ? 

In the corrupted currents of this world, 

Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice : 

And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself 

Buys out the laws. But 'tis not so above. 

There is no shuffling — there the action lies 

In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd, 

E'en to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 

To give in evidence. What then ? What rests 

Try what repentance can. What can it not 1 

Yet what can it, when one cannot repent ? 

Oh, wretched state ! Oh, bosom black as death ! 

Oh, limited soul, that, struggling to be free, 

Art more engaged ! Help, angels, make assay ! 

Bow, stubborn knees — and heart, with strings of steel, 

Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe ! 

All may be well. 



XIII. — Soliloquy of Hamlet on Death. 

To be — or not to be — that is the question ; 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to surfer 
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune — 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles ; 
And, by opposing, end them ? To die — to sleep — 
No more ? — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to. — 'Tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep — 
To sleep — perchance to dream — ay, there 's the rub 
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, 

29 w 



338 LESSONS IN [part II. 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause. — There 's the respect, 

That makes calamity of so long life ; 

For who could bear the whips and scorns of time, 

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pangs of despised love — the law's delay — 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes — 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, 

To groan and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death, 

(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn 

No traveller returns,) puzzles the will, 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 

And enterprises of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn away, 

And lose the name of action. 

XIV. — Falstaff's Encomium on Sack. 

A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends 
me into the brain : dries me there, all the foolish, dull and crudy 
vapours which environ it: makes it apprehensive, quick, in- 
ventive : full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes ; which de- 
livered over to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes 
excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris, is 
the warming of the blood; which, before, cold and settled, left 
the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and 
cowardice. But the sherris warms it, and makes it course from 
the inwards to the parts extreme. It illuminateth the face ; 
which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little 
kingdom, man, to arm : and then, the vital commoners, and 
inland petty spirits, muster me all to their captain, the heart! 
who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of 
courage — and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the 
weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it awork ; and 
learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack com- 
mences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that 
Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally in- 
herit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and bare land, 
manured, husbanded, and tilled, with drinking good, and good 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 339 

store of fertile sherris. If I had a thousand sons, the first human 
principle I would teach them, should be — to forswear thin pota- 
tions, and to addict themselves to sack. 

XV. — Prologue to the Tragedy of Cato. 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius and to mend the heart, 
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, 
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold ; 
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, 
Commanding tears to stream through every age ; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
And foes to virtue, wonder'd how they wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move 
The hero's glory or the virgin's love : 
In pitying love we but our weakness show, 
And wild ambition well deserves its wo. 
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause ; 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
He bids your breast with ancient ardours rise, 
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes : 
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, 
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was ; 
No common object to your sight displays, 
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys ; 
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 
And greatly falling with a falling state ! 
While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not in his country's cause ? 
Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? 
E'en when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, 
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, 
Ignobly vain, and impotently great, 
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; 
As her dead father's rev'rend image pass'd, 
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast, 
The triumph ceased — tears gush'd from every eye ; 
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by ; 
Her last good man, dejected Rome adored, 
And honour'd Caesar's less than. Cato's sword. 

Britons attend. Be worth like this approved ; 
And show you have the virtue to be moved. 
With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued. 



340 LESSONS IN [PART II. 

Our scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translation, and Italian song. 
Dare to have sense yourselves : assert the stage : 
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage. 
Such plays alone should please a British ear, 
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. 

XVI. — Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul. 

It must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well ! — 
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality? 
Or, whence this secret dread and inward horror, 
Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
'T is the divinity that stirs within us : 
'T is heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man. 
Eternity ! — Thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
Through what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must we 
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me : 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there 's a power above us, 
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works) he must delight in virtue ; 
And that which he delights in must be happy. 
But when ? or where ? This world was made for Caesar ; 
I 'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. 

{Laying his hand on his sword. 
Thus I am doubly arm'd. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote are both before me. 
This, in a moment, brings me to an end ; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth ; 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 

XVII. — Lady Randolph's Soliloquy, lamenting the Death of 
her Husband and Child. 

Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom 
Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 341 

The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart — 
Farewell a while, I will not leave you long : 
For, in your shades, I deem some spirit dwells ; 
Who, from the chiding stream, and groaning oak, 
Still hears and answers to Matilda's moan. 
Oh, Douglass ! Douglass ! if departed ghosts 
Are e'er permitted to review this world, 
Within the circle of that wood thou art ; 
And with the passion of immortals hear'st 
My lamentation ; hear'st thy wretched wife 
Weep for her husband slain, her infant lost. 
My brother's timeless death 1 seem to mourn, 
Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day. 
To thee I lift my voice, to thee address 
The plaint which mortal ear has never heard. 
Oh ! disregard me not. Though I am call'd 
Another's now, my heart is wholly thine. 
Incapable of change, affection lies 
Buried, my Douglass, in thy bloody grave. 

XVIII. — Speech of Henry V. to his Soldiers, at the Siege of 
Harfleur. 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, 
Or close the wall up with the English dead. 
In peace there 's nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility ; 
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage : 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
Let it pry o'er the portage of the head 
Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it, 
And fearfully as doth the galled rock 
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
SwilPd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide ; 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
To its full height. Now on, you noblest English, 
Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war-proof; 
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, 
Have in these parts from morn till even fought, 
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. 
Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest 
That those whom you call fathers did beget you. 
Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

29* 



342 LESSONS in [part n. 

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, 

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 

The metal of your pasture ; let us swear 

That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt not ; 

For there is none of you so mean and base, 

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. The game 's afoot ; 

Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge, 

Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George ! 

XIX. — Speech of Henry V. before the Battle of Agincourt, 
on the Earl of Westmoreland' 's wishing for more Men from 
England. 

What 's he that wishes more men from England ? 
My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin ; 
If we are marked to die, we are enow 
To do our country loss ; and if to live, 
The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 
No, no, my Lord ; wish not a man from England. 
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my host, 
That he who hath no stomach to this fight, 
May straight depart ; his passport shall be made ; 
And crowns, for convoy, put into his purse. 
We would not die in that man's company. 
This day is called the feast of Crispian. 
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
Will stand a tiptoe, when this day is named, 
And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 
He that outlives this day, and sees old age, 
Will, yearly, on the vigil, feast his neighbours, 
And say, to-morrow is St. Crispian : 
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars. 
Old men forget, yet shall not all forget. 
But they '11 remember, with advantages, 
What feats they did that day. Then shall our names, 
Familiar in their mouths as household words, 
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, 
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster, 
Be in their flowing cups, freshly remember'd. 
This story shall the good man teach his son : 
And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by, 
From this time to the ending of the world, 
But we and it shall be remember'd ; 
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; 
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me, 



Sect, v.] speaking. 343 

Shall be my brother, be he e'er so vile. 

This day shall gentle his condition, 

And gentlemen in England, now abed, 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here ; 

And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks 

That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day. 

XX. — Soliloquy of Dick the Apprentice. 

Thus far we run before the wind. — An apothecary ! — Make 
an apothecary of me ! What, cramp my genius over a pestle 
and mortar ; or mew me up in a shop, with an alligator stuffed, 
and a beggarly account of empty boxes ! To be culling sim- 
ples, and constantly adding to the bills of mortality ! — No ! no ! 
It will be much better to be pasted up in capitals, The part of 
Romeo by a young gentleman who never appeared on any 
stage before ! My ambition fires at the thought. But hold ; 
mayn't I run some chance of failing in my attempt ? Hissed — 
pelted — laughed at — not admitted into the green room; — that 
will never do — down, busy devil, down, down; try it again — 
loved by the women — envied by the men — applauded by the 
pit, clapped by the gallery, admired by the boxes. " Dear colo- 
nel, isn't he a charming creature ? My lord, don't you like him 
of all things? — Makes love like an angel? — What an eye he 

has ! Fine legs ! 1 shall certainly go to his benefit." 

Celestial sounds ! And then I'll get in with all the painters, 

and have myself put up in every print-shop — in the character of 
Macbeth ! "This is a sorry sight." (Stands in an attitude.) 
In the character of Richard, " Give me another horse ! Bind up 

my wounds !" These will do rarely. And then I have a 

chance of getting well married. Oh glorious thought ! I will 

enjoy it, though but in fancy. But what 's o'clock ? — it must be 
almost nine. I '11 away at once ; this is club night — the spouters 
are all met — little think they I 'm in town — they '11 be surprised 

to see me off I go ; — and then for my assignation with my 

master Gargle's daughter. 

Limbs, do your office, and support me well ; 
Bear me but to her, then fail me if you can. 

XXI. — Cassius instigating Brutus to join the Conspiracy 
against Caesar. 

Honour is the subject of my story. — 
I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 



344 LESSONS IN [part II. 

In awe of such a thing as I myself. 

I was born free as Caesar ; so were you : 

We both have fed as well : and we can both 

Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 

For once upon a raw and gusty day, 

The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores, 

Caesar says to me, " Darest thou, Cassius, now 

Leap in with me into this angry flood, 

And swim to yonder point?" — Upon the word, 

Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 

And bade him follow ; so indeed he did. 

The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it 

With lusty sinews throwing it aside, 

And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 

But ere we could arrive at the point proposed, 

Caesar cried, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink." 

I, as iEneas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 

The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber, 

Did I the tired Caesar ; and this man 

Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 

A wretched creature, and must bend his body 

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 

And when the fit was on him, I did mark 

How he did shake : 'tis true ; this god did shake : 

His coward lips did from their colour fly ; 

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 

Did lose its lustre ; I did hear him groan : 

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 

Mark him and write his speeches in their books, 

" Alas !" it cried — " Give me some drink, Titinius" — 

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone. 

Brutus and Caesar ! — What should be in that Caesar ? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? 
Write them together ; yours is as fair a name : 
Sound them ; it doth become the mouth as well : 
Weigh them ; it is as heavy : conjure with 'em ; 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. 
Now in the name of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meats doth this our Caesar feed, 
That he has grown so great ? Age, thou art ashamed ; 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods. 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 345 

But it was famed with more than with one man 1 
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompassed but one man ? 
Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say, 
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd 
Th' infernal devil, to keep his state in Rome, 
As easily as a king. 

XXII. — Brutus' Harangue on the Death of Caesar, 

Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers ! — Hear me for my cause ; 
and be silent that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour ; 
and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Cen- 
sure me in your wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you may 
the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear 
friend of Caesar's, to him, I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was 
no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose 
against Caesar, this is my answer : Not that I loved Caesar less, 
but that T loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were liv- 
ing, and die all slaves ; than that Caesar were dead, to live all 
freemen ? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was for- 
tunate, I rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him ; but as 
he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy 
for his fortune, honour for his valour, and death for his ambition. 
Who 's here so base that would be a bondman ? if any, speak ; 
for him I have offended. Who's here so rude, that would not 
be a Roman ? if any, speak ; for him I have offended. Who 's 
here so vile, that will not love his country ? if any, speak ; for 
him I have offended. I pause for a reply 

None ! Then none have I offended. I have done no more 
to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death 
is enrolled in the capitol ; his glory not extenuated, wherein he 
was worthy ; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered 
death. 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony ; who, though 
he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his 
dying, a place in the commonwealth ; as which of you shall not ? 
With this I depart— that as I slew my best lover for the good of 
Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please 
rny country to need my death. 

XXIII. — Antony's Oration over Caesar's Body. 

Friends, Romans, Countrymen ! Lend me your ears. 
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do, lives after them ; 
The good is oft interred with their bones : 



346 LESSONS IN [part II. 

So let it be with Caesar ! Noble Brutus 
Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious. 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault ; 
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. 
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 
(For Brutus is an honourable man, 
So are they all, all honourable men) 
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 
But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honourable man. 
He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept ! 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honourable man. 
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown ; 
Which he did thrice refuse : Was this ambition ? 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And sure, he. is an honourable man. 
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke ; 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 
You all did love him once ; not without cause ; 
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ? 
O judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, 
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me : 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar ; 
And 1 must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday the word, Caesar, might 
Have stood against the world ! Now lies he there, 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

Masters ! If I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong ; 
Who, you all know, are honourable men. 

I will not do them wrong — I rather choose 

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 

Than I will wrong such honourable men. 

But here 's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar; 

I found it in his closet : 'tis his will. 

Let but the commons hear this testament, 

(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read) 

And they would go andjdss dead Caesar's wounds, 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood — 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 347 

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 

Unto their issue. 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle: I remember 
The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent, 

That day he overcame the Nervii 

Look ! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through — 

See what a rent the envious Casca made 

Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ; 

And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, 

Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it ! 

This, this was the unkindest cut of all ! 

For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 

Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, 

Quite vanquished him ! Then burst his mighty heart, 

And in his mantle muffling up his face, 

E'en at the base of Pompey's statue, 

(Which all the while ran blood) great Caesar fell. 

what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down; 
While bloody treason flourish'd over us. 

O, now you weep ; and I perceive you feel 
The dint of pity ! These are gracious drops. 
Kind souls ! What, weep you when you behold 
Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look ye here ! — 
Here is himself — marr'd, as you see, by traitors. 

Good friends ! Sweet friends ! Let me not stir you up 
To any sudden flood of mutiny ! 
They that have done this deed are honourable ! 
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 
That made them do it ! They are wise and honourable, 
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you. 

1 come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ! 
I am no orator, as Brutus is; 

But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, 

That love my friend — and that they know full well 

That gave me public leave to speak of him! 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 

Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech, 

To stir men's blood — I only speak right on. 

I tell you that which you yourselves do know — 

Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths, 

And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, 

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 



348 LESSONS IN [part II. 

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 

XXIV. — Falstaff's Soliloquy on Honour. 

Owe heaven a death ! 'Tis not due yet ; and I would be loth 
to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him 
that calls not on me ? Well, 'tis no matter — honour pricks me 
on. But how, if honour pricks me off when I come on ? How 
then ? Can honour set to a leg ? No ; or an arm ? No ; or 
take away the grief of a wound ? No. Honour hath no skill 
in surgery, then? No. What is honour? A word. What is 
that word honour ? Air ; a trim reckoning. Who hath it ? He 
that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. Doth he hear 
it ? No. Is it insensible then ? Yea, to the dead. But will it 
not live with the living ? No. Why ? Detraction will not suffer 
it. Therefore, I '11 none of it. Honour is a mere 'scutcheon — 
and so ends my catechism. 

XXV. — Part of Richard IWs Soliloquy, the night preceding 
the Battle of Bosworth. 

'Tis now the dead of night, and half the world 
Is with a lonely solemn darkness hung; 
Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me) 
With all the weary courtship of 
My care-tired thoughts, can't win her to my bed, 
Though e'en the stars do wink, as 'twere, with overwatching. 
I '11 forth, and walk awhile. The air's refreshing, 
And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay 
Gives it a sweet and wholesome " odour. 
How awful is this gloom ! And hark ! from camp to camp 
The hum of either army stilly sounds, 
That the fix'd sentinels almost receive 
The secret whispers of each other's watch ! 
Steed threatens steed in high and boasting neighings, 
Piercing the night's dull ear. Hark ! From the tents, 
The armorers, accomplishing the knights, 
With clink of hammers closing rivets up, 
Give dreadful note of preparation : while some, 
Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch, 
With patience sit, and inly ruminate 
The morning's danger. By yon Heaven, my stern 
Impatience chides this tardy-gaited night, 
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp 
So tediously away. I '11 to my couch, 
And once more try to sleep her into morning. 



SECT. V.] SPEAKING. 349 



XXVI. — The World compared to a Stage. 

All the world's a stage; 
And all the men and women, merely players. 
They have their exits and their entrances ; 
And one man, in his time, plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages. At first, the Infant ; 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 
And then the whining School-boy ; with his satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping, like a snail, 
Unwillingly to school. And then the Lover ; 
Sighing like furnace : with a woful ballad 
Made to his Mistress' eyebrow. Then a Soldier ; 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard ; 
Jealous in honour ; sudden and quick in quarrel ; 
Seeking the bubble reputation, 
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the Justice ; 
In fair round belly, with good capon lined ; 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut ; 
Full of wise saws and modern instances : 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hose, well saved a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second Childishness, and mere Oblivion ; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 



30 



APPENDIX. 



CONCISE PASSAGES, 

EXEMPLIFYING CERTAIN PARTICULARS, ON THE PROPER EXPRES- 
SION OF WHICH, THE MODULATION AND MANAGEMENT OF THE 
VOICE, IN READING AND SPEAKING, PARTICULARLY DEPEND. 

I. — Examples of Antithesis ; or the Opposition of Words or 
Sentences. 

1. The manner of speaking is as important as the matter. — 
Chesterfield. 

2. Cowards die many times ; the valiant never taste of death 
but once. — Shakspeare. 

3. Temperance, by fortifying the mind and body, leads to 
happiness ; intemperance, by enervating the mind and body, ends 
generally in misery. — Art of Thinking. 

4. Title and ancestry render a good man more illustrious ; but 
an ill one more contemptible. Vice is infamous, though in a 
prince ; and virtue honourable, though in a peasant. — Spectator. 

5. Almost every object that attracts our notice has its bright 
and its dark side. He who habituates himself to look at the dis- 
pleasing side, will sour his disposition, and consequently impair 
his happiness ; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright 
side, insensibly meliorates his temper, and, in consequence of it, 
improves his own happiness, and the happiness of all around 
him. — World. 

6. A wise man endeavours to shine in himself; a fool to out- 
shine others. The former is humbled by the sense of his own 
infirmities ; the latter is lifted up by the discovery of those which 
he observes in others. The wise man considers what he wants ; 
and the fool what he abounds in. The wise man is happy when 
he gains his own approbation ; and the fool, when he recom- 
mends himself to the applause of those about him. — Spectator. 

(350) 



APPENDIX. 351 

7. When opportunities of exercise are wanting, temperance 
may in a great measure supply its place. If exercise throws off 
all superfluities, temperance prevents them ; if exercise clears 
the vessels, temperance neither satiates nor overstrains them ; 
if exercise raises proper ferments in the humours, and promotes 
the circulation of the blood, temperance gives nature her full 
play, and enables her to exert herself in all her force and vigour ; 
if exercise dissipates a growing distemper, temperance starves 
it. — Spectator. 

8. I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter 
I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is 
short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those 
are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are 
subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy. On the con- 
trary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an 
exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of 
sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a 
gloom of clouds and glitters for a moment ; cheerfulness keeps a 
kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and per- 
petual serenity. — Spectator. 

9. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful 
talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the 
accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion 
points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper 
and laudable methods of attaining them ; cunning has only pri- 
vate, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may make them 
succeed ; discretion has large and extensive views, and, like a 
well-formed eye, commands a whole horizon ; cunning is a kind 
of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects, which 
are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. 
Spectator. 

10. Nothing is more amiable than true modesty, and nothing 
more contemptible than the false. The one guards virtue ; the 
other betrays it. True modesty is ashamed to do any thing that 
is repugnant to the rules of right reason ; false modesty is 
ashamed to do any thing that is opposite to the humour of the 
company. True modesty avoids every thing that is criminal ; 
false modesty every thing that is unfashionable. The latter is 
only a general undetermined instinct; the former is that instinct, 
limited and circumscribed by the rules of prudence and religion. 
Spectator. 

11. How different is the view of past life, in the man who is 
grown old in knowledge and wisdom, from that of him who is 
grown old in ignorance and folly ! The latter is like the owner 
of a barren country, that fills his eye with the prospect of naked 
hills and plains, which produces nothing either profitable or or- 



352 APPENDIX. 

namental ; the former beholds a beautiful and spacious landscape, 
divided into delightful gardens, green meadows, fruitful fields ; 
and can scarce cast his eye on a single spot of his possessions 
that is not covered with some beautiful plant or flower. — 
Spectator. 

12. As there is a worldly happiness, which God perceives to 
be no other than disguised misery ; as there are worldly honours 
which, in his estimation, are reproach ; so there is a worldly 
wisdom, which, in his sight, is foolishness. Of this worldly 
wisdom, the characters are given in the scriptures, and placed in 
contrast with those of the wisdom which is from above. The 
one is the wisdom of the crafty ; the .other, that of the upright : 
the one terminates in selfishness ; the other in charity : the one 
is full of strife and bitter envying ; the other, of mercy and good 
fruits. — Blair. 

13. True honour, though it be a different principle from reli- 
gion, is that which produces the same effects. The lines of 
action, though drawn from different parts, terminate in the same 
point. Religion embraces virtue, as it is enjoined by the laws 
of God; honour, as it is graceful and ornamental to human 
nature. The religious man fears, the man of honour scorns, to 
do an ill action. The latter considers vice as something that is 
beneath him ; the former, as something that is offensive to the 
Divine Being : the one, as what is unbecoming ; the other, as 
what is forbidden. — Guardian. 

14. Where is the man that possesses, or indeed can be re- 
quired to possess, greater abilities in war, than Pompey ? One 
who has fought more pitched battles than others have maintained 
personal disputes ! Carried on more wars than others have ac- 
quired knowledge of by reading ! Reduced more provinces 
than others have aspired to, even in thought ! Whose youth 
was trained to the profession of arms, not by precepts derived 
from others, but by the highest offices of command! Not by 
personal mistakes in war, but by a train of important victories ; 
not by a series of campaigns, but by a succession of triumphs. — 
Cicero. 

15. Two principles in human nature reign, 
Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain ; 
Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call, 
Each works its end — to move or govern all. — Pope. 



16. In point of sermons, 't is confess'd 
Our English clergy make the best ; 
But this appears, we must confess, 
Not from the pulpit, but the press. 



APPENDIX. 353 

They manage with disjointed skill, 

The matter well, the manner ill; 

And, what seems paradox at first, 

They make the best, and preach the worst. — Byram. 

17. Know, Nature's children all divide her care ; 
The fur that warms a monarch warm'd a bear. 
While man exclaims, " See all things for my use !" 
" See man for mine !" replies a pamper'd goose : 
And just as short of reason he must fall, 

Who thinks ail made for one, not one for all. — Pope. 

18. O thou goddess, 

Thou divine Nature ! How thyself thou blazon'st 
In these two princely boys ! They are as gentle 
As zephyrs blowing below the violet, 
Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough 
(Their royal blood enchafed) as the rudest wind 
That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 
And make them stoop to the vale. — Shakspeare. 

19. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, 
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 

'T is not enough no harshness gives offence ; 

The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 

Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, 

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 

The hoarse rough verse should like a torrent roar. 

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 

The line, too, labours, and the words move slow ; 

Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 

Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. 

Pope. 

20. Good name in man and woman 
Is the immediate jewel of their souls. 

Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 't is something, nothing ; 
'T was mine, 't is his, and has been slave to thousands. 
But he that filches from me my good name, 
Robs me of that which not enriches him, 
And makes me poor indeed. — Shakspeare. 

II. — Examples of Enumeration ; or the mentioning of 
Particulars. 

1. I consider a human soul, without education, like marble 
in the quarry ; which shows none of its inherent beauties till the 
skill of the polisher fetches out the colours, makes the surface 
30* x 



354 APPENDIX. 

shine, and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot and vein, that 
runs through the body of it. — Spectator. 

2. The subject of a discourse being opened, explained and 
confirmed ; that is to say, the speaker having gained the atten- 
tion and judgment of his audience, he must proceed to complete 
his conquest over the passions ; such as imagination, admiration, 
surprise, hope, joy, love, fear, grief, anger. Now he must begin 
to exert himself; here it is that a fine genius may display itself, 
in the use of amplification, enumeration, interrogation, metaphor, 
and every ornament that can render a discourse entertaining, 
winning 1 , striking, and enforcing. — Baillie. 

O 7 O 7 o 

2. I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor 
principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, 
nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to 
separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our 
Lord. — St. Paul. 

4. Sincerity is to speak as we think, to do as we pretend and 
profess, to perform and make good what we promise, and really 
to be what we would seem and appear to be. — Tillotson. 

5. No blessing of life is in any way comparable to the enjoy- 
ment of a discreet and virtuous friend ; it eases and unloads the 
mind, clears and improves the understanding, engenders thought 
and knowledge, animates virtue and good resolutions, soothes and 
allays the passions, and finds employment for most of the vacant 
hours of life. — Spectator. 

6. The brightness of the sky, the lengthening of the days, the 
increasing verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of 
good news, or whatever carries with it the most distant glimpse 
of joy, is frequently the parent of a social and happy conversa- 
tion. — World. 

7. In fair weather, when my heart is cheered, and I feel that 
exaltation of spirits which results from light and warmth, joined 
with a beautiful prospect of nature, I regard myself as one placed, 
by the hand of God, in the midst of an ample theatre, in which 
the sun, moon, and stars, the fruits also, and vegetables of the 
earth, perpetually changing their positions or their aspects, ex- 
hibit an elegant entertainment to the understanding, as well as to 
the eye. Thunder and lightning, rain and hail, the painted bow 
and the glaring comets, are decorations of this mighty theatre ; 
and the sable hemisphere, studded with spangles, the blue vault 
at noon, the glorious gildings and rich colourings in the horizon, 
I look on as so many successive scenes. — Spectator. 

8. Complaisance renders a superior amiable, an equal agree- 
able, and an inferior acceptable. It smoothes distinction, sweetens 



APPENDIX. 355 

conversation, and makes every one in the company pleased with 
himself. It produces good nature and mutual benevolence, 
encourages the timorous, soothes the turbulent, humanizes the 
fierce, and distinguishes a society of civilized persons from a 
company of savages. In a word, complaisance is a virtue that 
blends all orders of men together, in a friendly intercourse of 
words and actions, and is suited to that equality in human nature 
which every man ought to consider, so far as is consistent with 
the order and economy of the world. — Guardian. 

9. It is owing to our having early imbibed false notions of 
virtue, that the word Christian does not carry with it, at first 
view, all that is great, worthy, friendly, generous, and heroic. 
The man who suspends his hopes of the rewards of worthy 
actions till after death ; who can bestow unseen ; who can over- 
look hatred ; do good to his slanderer ; who can never be angry 
at his friend ; never revengeful to his enemy, is certainly formed 
for the benefit of society. — Spectator. 

10. Though we seem grieved at the shortness of life in gen- 
eral, we are wishing every period of it at an end. The minor 
longs to be of age ; then to be a man of business ; then to make 
up an estate ; then to arrive at honours ; then to retire. The 
usurer would be very well satisfied to have all the time annihi- 
lated that lies' between the present moment and the next quarter- 
day ; the politician would be contented to lose three years in his 
life, could he place things in the posture which he fancies they 
will stand in after such a revolution of time ; and the lover would 
be glad to strike out of his existence, all the moments that are to 
pass away before the happy meeting. 

11. Should the greater part of the people sit down and draw 
up a particular account of their time, what a shameful bill would 
it be ! So much in eating, drinking, and sleeping, beyond what 
nature requires ; so much in revelling and wantonness ; so much 
for the recovery of last night's intemperance ; so much in gam- 
ing, plays, and masquerades ; so much in paying and receiving 
formal and impertinent visits ; so much in idle and foolish 
prating, in censuring and reviling our neighbours ! so much in 
dressing out our bodies, and in talking of fashions ; and so much 
wasted and lost in doing nothing at all. — Sherlock. 

12. If we would have the kindness of others, we must endure 
their follies. He who cannot persuade himself to withdraw from 
society, must be content to pay a tribute of his time to a multi- 
tude of tyrants ; to the loiterer, who makes appointments he 
never keeps ; to the consulter, who asks advice which he never 
takes ; to the boaster, who blusters only to be praised ; to the 
complainer, who whines only to be pitied ; to the projector, 



356 APPENDIX. 

whose happiness is to entertain his friends with expectations 
which all but himself know to be vain ; to the economist, who 
tells of bargains and settlements ; to the politician, who predicts 
the consequences of deaths, battles, and alliances ; to the usurer, 
who compares the state of the different funds ; and to the talker, 
who talks only because he loves to be talking. — Johnson. 

13. Charity suffereth long, and is kind ; charity envieth not ; 
charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave 
itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, 
thinketh no evil ; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the 
truth ; beareth all things, believeth -all things, hopeth all things, 
endureth all things. — St. Paul. 

14. Delightful task ! To rear the tender thought, 
To teach the young idea how to shoot, 

To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, 

To breathe th' enliv'ning spirit, and to fix 

The gen'rous purpose in the glowing breast. — Thomson. 

15. Dread o'er the scene the ghost of Hamlet stalks — 
Othello rages — poor Monimia mourns — 

And Belvidera pours her soul in love. 
Terror alarms the breast — the comely tear 
Steals o'er the cheek. Or else the comic muse 
Holds to the world a picture of itself, 
And raises, sly, the fair impartial laugh. 
Sometimes she lifts her strain, and paints the scenes 
Of beauteous life ; whate'er can deck mankind, 
Or charm the heart, the generous Bevil show'd. 

Thomson. 

16. Then Commerce brought into the public walk 
The busy merchant ; the big warehouse built ; 
Raised the strong crane ; choak'd up the loaded street 
With foreign plenty, and thy stream, O Thames, 
Large, gentle, deep, majestic, king of floods ! 

Chose for his grand resort. On either hand, 

Like a long wintry forest, groves of masts 

Shoot up their spires ; the bellying sheet between, 

Possess'd the breezy void, the sooty hulk 

Steer'd sluggish on ; the splendid barge along 

Rowed regular to harmony ; around, 

The boat, light skimming, stretch'd its oary wings ; 

While deep, the various voice of fervent toil, 

From bank to bank, increased ; whence ribb'd with oak, 

To bear the British thunder, black and bold, 

The roaring vessel rush'd into the main. — Thomson. 



APPENDIX. 357 

17. 'Tis from high life high characters are drawn ; 
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn. 

A judge is just ; a chancellor juster still ; 

A gownman learn'd ; a bishop — what you will : 

Wise, if a minister ; hut, if a king, 

More wise, more learn'd, more just, more every thing. 

Pope. 

18. 'Tis education forms the common mind ; 
Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclined. 
Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire ; 
The next a tradesman, meek, and much a liar ; 
Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave ; 
Will sneaks a scriv'ner, an exceeding knave. 

Is he a churchman ? Then he 's fond of power ; 

A quaker ? sly ; a presbyterian ? sour. 

A smart freethinker ? All things in an hour. — Pope. 

19. See what a grace was seated on his brow ; 
Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself: 

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ; 

A station like the herald Mercury, 

New lighted, on a heaven-kissing hill ; 

A combination, and a form indeed, 

Where every god did seem to set his seal, 

To give the world assurance of a man. — Shakspeare. 

20. The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
Leave not a wreck behind. — Shakspeare. 

III. — Examples of Suspension; or a delaying of the Sense. 

1. As beauty of person, with an agreeable carriage, pleases 
the eye, and that pleasure consists in observing that all the parts 
have a certain elegance, and are proportioned to each other; so 
does decency of behaviour obtain the approbation of all with whom 
we converse, from the order, consistency and moderation of our 
words and actions. — Spectator. 

2. If Pericles, as historians report, could shake the firmest re- 
solutions of his hearers, and set the passions of all Greece in a 
ferment, when the public welfare of his country, or the fear of 
hostile invasions, was the subject ! what may we not expect from 
that orator, who, with a becoming energy, warns his audience 
against those evils, which have no remedy, when once under- 
gone, either from prudence or time ? — Spectator. 



358 APPENDIX. 

3. Though there is a great deal of pleasure in contemplating 
the material world, by which I mean that system of bodies into 
which nature has so curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, 
with the several relations which, those bodies bear to one another ; 
there is still something more wonderful and surprising, in con- 
templating the world of life, or those various animals with which 
every part of the universe is furnished. — Spectator. 

4. Since it is certain that our hearts cannot deceive us in the 
7ove of the world, and that we cannot command ourselves enough 
to resign it, though we every day wish ourselves disengaged from 
its allurements ; let us not stand upon a formal taking of leave, 
but wean ourselves from them, while we are in the midst of 
them. — Spectator. 

5. When a man has got such a great and exalted soul, as that 
he can look upon life and death, riches and poverty, with indif- 
ference, and closely adheres to honesty, in whatever shape she 
presents herself; then it is that virtue appears with such a 
brightness, as that all the world must admire her beauties. — 
Cicero. 

6. To hear a judicious and elegant discourse from the pulpit, 
which would in print make a noble figure, murdered by him 
who had learning and taste to compose it, but, having been ne- 
glected as to one important part of his education, knows not how 
to deliver it, otherwise than with a tone between singing and 
saying, or with a nod of his head, to enforce, as w T ith a hammer, 
every emphatical word, or with the same unanimated monotony 
in which he was used to repeat Quse genus at Westminster 
school : what can be imagined more lamentable ? Yet what 
more common ! — Burgh. 

7. Having already shown how the fancy is affected by the 
works of nature, and afterwards considered, in general, both the 
works of nature and art, how they mutually assist and complete 
each other, in forming such scenes and prospects, as are most 
apt to delight the mind of the beholder, I shall, in this paper, 
throw together some reflections on that particular art, which has 
a more immediate tendency than any other, to produce those 
primary pleasures of the imagination, which have hitherto been 
the subject of this discourse. — Spectator. 

8. The causes of good and evil are so various and uncertain, 
so often entangled with each other, so diversified by various re- 
lations, and so much subject to accidents which cannot be fore- 
seen ; that he who would fix his condition upon incontestible 
reasons of preference, must live and die inquiring and delibe- 
rating. — Johnson. 



APPENDIX. 359 

9. He, who through the vast immensity can pierce, 
See worlds on worlds compose one universe, 
Observe how system into system runs, 

What other planets circle other suns ; 
What varied being people every star, 
May tell, why heaven has made us as we are. — Pope. 

10. In that soft season, when descending showers 
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flowers; 
When opening buds salute the welcome day, 

And earth, relenting, feels the genial ray ; 

As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest, 

And love itself was banish'd from my breast ; 

A train of phantoms in wild order rose, 

And join'd, this intellectual scene compose. — Pope. 

11. Nor fame I slight, nor for her favours call ; 
She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all. 

But if the purchase cost so dear a price, 

As soothing folly, or exalting vice ; 

And if the muse must flatter lawless sway, 

And follow still where fortune leads the way ; 

Or, if no basis bear my rising name 

But the fallen ruins of another's fame ; 

Then teach me, heaven, to scorn the guilty bays ; 

Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise. 

Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown ; 

Oh, grant me honest fame, or grant me none. — Pope. 

12. As one, who long in populous city pent, 
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air, 
Forth issuing on a summer's morn, to breathe, 
Among the pleasant villages and farms 
Adjoin'd, from each thing met conceives delight ; 
The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine, 

Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound ; 
If chance, with nymph-like step, fair virgin pass, 
What pleasing seem'd, for her now pleases more 
She most, and in. her look sums all delight : 
Such pleasure took the serpent to behold 
This flowery plant, the sweet recess of Eve, 
Thus early, thus alone. — Milton. 

IV. — Examples of Parenthesis ; or Words interposed in 
Sentences. 

1. Though good sense is not in the number, nor always, it 
must be owned, in the company of the sciences ; yet it is (as the 



360 APPENDIX. 

most sensible of the poets has justly observed) fairly worth the 
seven. — Melmoth. 

2. An elevated genius, employed in little things, appears (to 
use the simile of Longinus) like the sun in his evening declina- 
tion : he remits his splendour, but retains his magnitude ; and 
pleases more, though he dazzles less. — Johnson. 

3. The horror with which we entertain the thoughts of death 
(or indeed of any future evil) and the uncertainty of its approach, 
fill a melancholy mind with innumerable apprehensions and sus- 
picions. — Spectator. 

4. If envious people were to ask themselves, whether they 
would exchange their entire situations with the persons envied, 
(I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as their persons, 
fortunes, dignities, &c.) I presume the self-love common to all 
human nature, would generally make them prefer their own 
condition. — Shenstone. 

5. Notwithstanding all the care of Cicero, history informs us, 
that Marcus proved a mere blockhead ; and that nature (who, it 
seems, was even with the son for her prodigality to the father) 
rendered him incapable of improving, by all the rules of elo- 
quence, the precepts of philosophy, his own endeavours, and the 
most refined conversation in Athens. — Spectator. 

6. The opera (in which action is joined with music, in order 
to entertain the eye at the same time with the ear) I must beg 
leave (with all due submission to the taste of the great) to consi- 
der as a forced conjunction of two things, which nature does not 
allow to go together. — Burgh. 

7. As my own abilities in speaking (for I shall admit this 
charge, although experience has convinced me, that what is 
called the power of eloquence, depends, for the most part, upon 
the hearers, and that the characters of public speakers are de- 
termined by that degree of favour which you vouchsafe to each) 
if long practice, I say, hath given me any proficiency in speak- 
ing, you have ever found it devoted to my country. — Demos- 
thenes. 

8. When Socrates' fetters were knocked ofT (as was usual to 
be done on the day that the condemned person was to be exe- 
cuted), being seated in the midst of his disciples, and laying one 
of his legs over the other in a very unconcerned posture, he be- 
gan to rub it where it had been galled by the iron ; and (whether 
it was to show the indifference with which he entertained the 
thoughts of his approaching death, or, after his usual manner, 
to take every occasion of philosophising upon some useful subject) 
he observed the pleasure of that sensation which now arose in 



APPENDIX. 361 

those very parts of his leg, that just before had been so much 
pained by fetters. Upon this he reflected on the nature of plea- 
sure and pain in general, and how constantly they succeeded 
one another. — Spectator. 

9. Let us (since life can little more supply 
Than just to look about us and to die) 

•Expatiate free, o'er all this scene of man ; 

A mighty maze ! but not without a plan. — Pope. 

10. His years are young, but his experience old ; 
His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe ; 
And, in a word, (for far behind his worth 

Come all the praises that I now bestow,) 
He is complete in feature and in mind, 
With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 

Shakspeare's Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

11. That man i' th' world, who shall report he has 
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 

For speaking false in that. Thou art alone 
(If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 
Thy meekness, saint-like, wife-like government, 
Obeying in commanding, and thy parts 
Sovereign and pious, could but speak thee out) 
The queen of earthly queens. 

Shakspeare 1 s Henry VIII. 

12. Forthwith (behold the excellence, the power, 
Which God hath in his mighty angels placed) 
Their arms away they threw, and to the hills, 
(For earth hath this variety from heaven, 

Of pleasure situate in hill and dale,) 

Light as the lightning's glimpse, they ran, they flew ; 

From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, 

They pluck'd the seated hills, with all their load, 

Rocks, waters, woods ; and, by the shaggy tops 

Uplifted, bore them in their hands. — Paradise Lost. 



V. — Examples of Interrogation, or Questioning. 

1. One day, when the Moon was under an eclipse, she com- 
plained thus to the Sun, of the discontinuance of his favours. 
My dearest friend, said she, Why do you not shine upon me as 
you used to do ? Do I not shine upon thee ? said the Sun : I 
am very sure that I intended it. O no, replies the Moon ; but I 
now perceive the reason. I see that dirty planet the Earth is 
got between us. — Dodsleifs Fables. 
31 



362 APPENDIX. 

2. Searching every kingdom for a man who has the least 
comfort in life, Where is he to be found ? In the royal palace. — 
What, his Majesty ? Yes ; especially if he be a despot. — Art 
of Thinking. 

3. You have obliged a man : very well ! What would you 
have more ? Is not the consciousness of doing good a sufficient 
reward ? -7- Art of Thinking. 

4. A certain passenger at sea had the curiosity to ask the 
pilot of the vessel what death his father died of. What death ? 
said the pilot. Why he perished at sea, as my grandfather did 
before him. And are you not afraid of trusting yourself to an 
element that has proved thus fatal to your family ? Afraid ! 
By- no means. Is not your father dead ? Yes; but he died in 
his bed. And why then, returned the pilot, are you not afraid 
of trusting yourself in your bed ? — Art of Thinking. 

5. Is it credible, is it possible, that the mighty soul of a New- 
ton should share exactly the same fate with the vilest insect that 
crawls upon the ground ? that, after having laid open the mys- 
teries of nature, and pushed its discoveries almost to the very 
boundaries of the universe, it should, on a sudden, have all its 
lights at once extinguished, and sink into everlasting darkness 
and insensibility ? — Spectator. 

6. Suppose a youth to have no prospect either of sitting in 
Parliament, of pleading at the bar, of appearing upon the stage, 
or in the pulpit. Does it follow that he need bestow no pains in 
learning to speak properly his native language ? Will he never 
have occasion to read, in a company of his friends, a copy of 
verses, a passage of a book or newspaper? Must he never read 
a discourse of Tillotson, or a chapter of the Whole Duty of 
Man, for the instruction of his children and servants ? Cicero 
justly observes, that address in speaking is highly ornamental, 
as well as useful, even in private life. The limbs are parts of 
the body much less noble than the tongue ; yet no gentleman 
grudges a considerable expense of time and money, to have his 
son taught to use them properly ; which is very commendable. 
And is there no attention to be paid to the use of the tongue, the 
glory of man ? — Burgh. 

7. Does greatness secure persons of rank from infirmities, 
either of body or mind ? Will the headach, the gout, or fever, 
spare a prince any more than a subject ? When old age comes 
to lie heavy upon him, will his engineers relieve him of the 
load ? Can his guards and sentinels, by doubling and trebling 
their numbers, and their watchfulness, prevent the approach of 
death? Nay, if jealousy 1 , or even ill-humour, disturb his happi- 



APPENDIX. 363 

ness, will the cringes of his fawning attendants restore his tran- 
quillity ? What comfort has he in reflecting, (if he can make the 
reflection,) while the colic, like Prometheus' vulture, tears his 
bowels, that he is under a canopy of crimson velvet, fringed with 
gold ? When the pangs of the gout or stone extort from him 
screams of agony, do the titles of Highness or Majesty come 
sweetly into his ear? If he is agitated with rage, does the sound 
of Serene, or Most Christian, prevent his staring, reddening, and 
gnashing his teeth like a madman ? Would not a twinge of the 
toothach, or an affront from an inferior, make the mighty Cassar 
forget that he was emperor of the world ? — Montaigne. 

8. When will you, my countrymen, when will you rouse 
from your indolence, and bethink yourselves of what is to be 
done? — When you are forced to it by some fatal disaster? 
When irresistible necessity drives you ? What think you of the 
disgraces which are already come upon you ? Is not the past 
sufficient to stimulate your activity ? Or, do you wait for some- 
what more forcible and urgent? How long will you amuse 
yourselves with inquiring of one another after news, as you 
ramble idly about the streets ? What news so strange ever came 
to Athens, as that a Macedonian should subdue this state and 
lord it over Greece ? — Demosthenes. 

9. What is the blooming tincture of the skin, 
To peace of mind, and harmony within ? 
What the bright sparkling of the finest eye, 

To the soft soothing of a calm reply ? 
Can comeliness of form, or shape, or air, 
With comeliness of word or deeds compare? 
No : — those at first th' unwary heart may gain ; 
But these, these only, can the heart retain. — Gay. 

10. Wrong'd in my love, all proffers I disdain : 
Deceived for once, I trust not kings again. 

Ye have my answer — What remains to do, 

Your king, Ulysses, may consult with you. 

What needs he the defence this arm can make ? 

Has he not walls no human force can shake ? 

Has he not fenced his guarded navy round 

With piles, with ramparts, and a trench profound ? 

And will not these, the wonders he has done, 

Repel the rage of Priam's single son ? — Pope's Homer, 



364 APPENDIX. 



VI. — Examples of Climax, or a gradual increase of Sense 
or Passion. 

1. Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves not 
only as sensitive, but as rational beings ; not only as rational, but 
social ; not only as social, but immortal. — Blair. 

2. Whom he did foreknow, he also did predestinate ; and 
whom he did predestinate, them he also called ; and whom he 
called, them he also justified ; and whom he justified, them he 
also glorified. — St. Paul. 

3. What hope is there remaining of liberty, if whatever is 
their pleasure, it is lawful for them to do ; if what is lawful for 
them to do, they are able to do ; if what they are able to do, they 
dare do ; if what they dare do, they really execute ; and if what 
they execute is no way offensive to you. — Cicero. 

4. Nothing is more pleasant to the fancy, than to enlarge 
itself by degrees in its contemplation of the various proportions 
which its several objects bear to each other; when it compares 
the body of a man to the bulk of the whole earth ; the earth to 
the circle it describes round the sun ; that circle to the sphere of 
the fixed stars ; the sphere of the fixed stars to the circuit of the 
whole creation ; the whole creation itself to the infinite space that 
is everywhere diffused around it. — Spectator. 

5. After we have practised good actions awhile, they become 
easy ; and when they are easy, we begin to take pleasure in 
them; and when they please us, we do them frequently; and 
by frequency of acts, a thing grows into a habit; and a con- 
firmed habit is a second kind of nature ; and so far as any thing 
is natural, so far it is necessary ; and we can hardly do other- 
wise ; nay, we do it many times when we do not think of it. — 
Tillotson. 

6. It is pleasant to be virtuous and good, because that is to 
excel many others ; it is pleasant to grow better, because that is 
to excel ourselves ; it is pleasant to mortify and subdue our lusts, 
because that is victory ; it is pleasant to command our appetites 
and passions, and to keep them in due order, within the bounds 
of reason and religion, because that is empire. — Tillotson. 

7. Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts to show 
how amiable virtue is. We love a righteous man, says he, who 
lives in the remotest parts of the earth, though we are altogether 
out of the reach of his virtue, and can receive from it no manner 



APPENDIX. 365 

of benefit ; nay, one who died several ages ago, raises a secret 
fondness and benevolence for him in our minds, when we read 
his story ; nay, what is still more, one who has been the enemy 
of our country, provided his wars were regulated by justice and 
humanity. — Spectator. 

8. As trees and plants necessarily arise from seeds, so are 
you, Antony, the seed of this most calamitous war. — You mourn, 
O Romans, that three of your armies have been slaughtered — 
they were slaughtered by Antony ; you lament the loss of your 
most illustrious citizens — they were torn from you by Antony ; 
the authority of this order is deeply wounded — it is wounded by 
Antony ; in short, all the calamities we have ever since beheld 
(and what calamities have we not beheld?) have been entirely 
owing to Antony. As Helen was at Troy, so the bane, the 
misery, the destruction of this state is — Antony. — Cicero. 

9. Give me the cup, 

And let the kettle to the trumpets speak, 
The trumpets to the cannoneers within, 

The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, 
Now the king drinks to Hamlet.-— Tragedy of Hamlet. 

10. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plans ; 

At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve, 

In all the magnanimity of thought, 

Resolves and re-resolves — then dies the same. — Young. 



VII. — Examples of the principal Emotions and Passions- 
Admiration, Contempt, Joy, Grief Courage, Fear, Love, 
Hatred, Pity, Anger, Revenge, and Jealousy. 

1. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! 
How infinite in faculties ! In form and moving, how express 
and admirable ! In action, how like an angel ! In apprehen- 
sion, how like a god ! — Hamlet. 

2. Away ! No woman could descend so low. 
A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are. 
Fit only for yourselves, you herd together; 
And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts, 
You talk of beauties which you never saw, 
And fancy raptures that you never knew. 

Fair Penitent. 

31* 



366 APPENDIX. 

3. Let mirth go on ; let pleasure know no pause, 
But fill up every minute of this day. 

'Tis yours, my children, sacred to your loves. 
The glorious sun himself for you looks gay ; 
He shines for Altamont, and for Calista. 
Take care my gates be open. Bid all welcome ; 
All who rejoice with me to-day are friends. 
Let each indulge his genius ; each be glad, 
Jocund and free, and swell the feast with mirth. 
The sprightly bowl shall cheerfully go round ; 
None shall be grave, nor too severely wise : 
Losses and disappointments, care and poverty, 
The rich man's insolence, and the great man's scorn, 
In wine shall be forgotten all. — Fair Penitent. 

4. All dark and comfortless. 

Where all these various objects, that but now 

Employ'd my busy eyes ? Where those eyes ? 

These groping hands are now my only guides, 

And feeling all my sight. 

O misery ! What words can sound my grief! 

Shut from the living whilst among the living ; 

Dark as the grave amidst the bustling world ; 

At once from business and from pleasure barr'd ; 

No more to view the beauty of the spring, 

Or see the face of kindred or of friend. — Trag. of Lear. 

5. Thou speak'st a woman's ; hear a warrior's wish. 
Right from their native land, the stormy north, 

May the wind blow, till every keel is fix'd 
Immovable in Caledonia's strand ! 
Then shall our foes repent their bold invasion, 
And roving armies shun the fatal shore. 

Trag. of Douglas. 

6. Ah ! Mercy on my soul ! What 's that ? My old friend's 
ghost ! They say, none but wicked folks walk. I wish I were 
at the bottom of a coalpit ! La ! how pale, and how long his 
face is grown since his death ! He never was handsome ; and 
death has improved him very much the wrong way. Pray, do 
not come near me ! I wished you very well when you were 
alive. But I could never abide a dead man cheek by jowl with 
me. Ah ! ah ! mercy on me ! No nearer, pray ! If it be only 
to take your leave of me, that you are come back, I could have 
excused you the ceremony with all my heart. Or if you — mercy 
on us ! — No nearer, pray — or if you have wronged any body, as 
you always loved money a little, I give you the word of a frighted 
Christian, I will pray, as long as you please, for the deliverance 



APPENDIX. 367 

and repose of your departed soul. My good, worthy, noble friend, 
do, pray, disappear, as ever you would wish your old friend, 
Anselem, to come to his senses again. — Moliere's Blunderer. 

7. Who can behold such beauty and be silent ! 
O ! I could talk to thee for ever; 

For ever fix and gaze on those dear eyes ; 

For every glance they send darts through my soul ! 

Orphan. 

8. How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him, for he is a Christian : 

But more for that in low simplicity 

He lends out money gratis, and brings down 

The rate of usance with us here in Venice. 

If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat that ancient grudge I bear him. 

He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 

E'en there where merchants most do congregate, 

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 

Which he calls usury. Cursed be my tribe 

If I forgive him. — Merchant of Venice. 

9. As, in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, 
Are idly bent on him that enters next, 
Thinking his prattle to be tedious ; 

Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes 
Did scowl on Richard. No man cried, God save him ; 
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home : 
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head : 
Which, with such gentle sorrow, he shook off, 
(His face still combating with tears and smiles, 
The badges of his grief and patience ;) 
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd 
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted ; 
And barbarism itself have pitied him. — Richard II. 

10. Hear me, rash man, on thy allegiance hear me. 
Since thou hast striven to make us break our vow, 
(Which not our nature nor our place can bear) 

We banish thee for ever from our sight 

And kingdom. If, when three days are expired, 

Thy hated trunk be found in our dominions, 

That moment is thy death. Away ! 

By Jupiter, this shall not be revoked. — Tragedy of Lear. 

11. If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He 
hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million, laughed 
at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted 



368 APPENDIX. 

my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And 
what 's his reason ? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes ? Hath 
not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? 
Is he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, 
subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed 
and cooled by the same summer and winter, as a Christian is ? 
If you prick us, do we not bleed ? If you tickle us, do we not 
laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong 
us, shall we not revenge ? If we are like you in the rest, we 
will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is 
his humility ? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what 
would his sufferance be, by Christian example ? Why, revenge. 
The villany you teach me I will execute; and it shall go hard, 
but I will better the instruction. — Merchant of Venice. 

12. Ye amaranths ! Ye roses, like the morn ! 
Sweet myrtles, and ye golden orange groves ! 
Joy-giving, love-inspiring, holy bower ! 
Know, in thy fragrant bosom, thou receiv'st 
A murd'rer ? Oh, I shall stain thy lilies, 
And horror will usurp the seat of bliss ! 

Ha ! She sleeps 

The day's uncommon heat has overcome her. 
Then take, my longing eyes, your last full gaze — 
Oh, what a sight is here ! How dreadful fair ! 
Who would not think that being innocent ! 
W T here shall I strike ? Who strikes her, strikes himself — 
My own life's blood will issue at her wound — 
But see, she smiles ? I never shall smile more — 
It strongly tempis me to a parting kiss — 
Ha, smile again ! She dreams of him she loves. 
Curse on her charms ! I '11 stab her through them ail. 

Revenge. 



FINIS, 



VALUABLE SCHOOL BOOKS, 

PUBLISHED BY 

THOMAS, COWPEKTHWAIT & CO. 

PHILADELPHIA, 

AND FOR SALE BY BOOKSELLERS GENERALLY 
THROUGHOUT THE UNITED STATES. 



MITCHELL'S AMERICAN SYSTEM OF STANDARD 
SCHOOL GEOGRAPHY, 

In a Series ; adapted to the progressively developing 
capacities of youth. 

Mitchell's School Series has been wholly or partly 
introduced into the Public and Private Schools of the 
principal Cities and Towns of the United States. 



MITCHELL'S PRIMARY GEOGRAPHY. 

An easy introduction to the study of Geography : designed for the 
instruction of Children in Schools and Families ; illustrated by 
120 Engravings and 14 coloured Maps. By S. Augustus 
Mitchell. Price, 34 cents. 

This work has been introduced into the Public Schools of Boston, 
New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, New Orleans, St. Louis, Louis- 
ville, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, and many other cities and towns in 
the United States, and is in general use in the Private Schools 
throughout the whole country. 



MITCHELL'S INTERMEDIATE OR SECONDARY 
GEOGRAPHY. 

§£jf This work will be published early in October, 1848. 

The text, the maps, and the exercises on the maps, will be print- 
ed together, and will form one volume, 4to. 



(1) 



THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO.'s 



The proposed work will correspond in style of embellishment, 
colouring, arrangement of lessons, and general scope of composi- 
tion, to the other Geographical works of Mr. Mitchell, so as to form 
a connecting link in the Series in progress, of which the Primary 
Geography, the School Geography and Atlas, and the Ancient Ge- 
ography and Atlas, already published, form a part. Price, 75 cts. 

MITCHELL'S SCHOOL GEOGRAPHY. 

A system of modern Geography ; comprising a Description of the 
present State of the World, and its five great Divisions. Em- 
bellished with numerous Engravings, and illustrated by an Atlas 
of 28 Maps, drawn and engraved for the work. Second revised 
edition. By S. Augustus Mitchell. Price, $1 12£. 

From the Teachers of Public Schools in the City of New York. 

We have examined " Mitchell's School Geography," and the 
Atlas that accompanies it, with considerable care, and must give it 
the preference to any work of the kind with which we are acquaint- 
ed. Its merits are numerous, — the definitions are remarkably plain 
and concise, — the exercises are copious and important, and the de- 
scriptive department is luminous and correct. The divisions of the 
American Continent are represented and described as they really 
exist at the present time, and the gross mis-statements generally 
found in school Geographies are corrected. The typographical 
execution is uncommonly neat and distinct. Indeed the Atlas is a 
model of the kind, and actually teems with information. The 
Geography is embellished with some hundreds of neat and well- 
executed engravings, which illustrate and greatly enhance the value 
of the work. 

DAVID PATTERSON, M. D.. Prin. Public School No. 3. 

WILLIAM BELDEN, A. M.,Prin. Public School No. 2. 

JNO. W. KETCHUM, Principal of Public School No. 7. 

LEONARD HAZELTINE, Prin. of Public School No. 14. 

JOHN PATTERSON, Public School No. 4. 

WM. A. WALKER, Public School No. 15. 

ABM. K. VAN NECK, Public School No. 16. 

WM. FORREST, Principal of Collegiate School. 

CITY OF PHILADELPHIA. 

Board of Controllers of Public Schools, 

1st School District of Pennsylvania. 

At a meeting of the Board, held October 7th, 1839, the Com- 
mittee of Supplies offered the following resolution: 

Resolved, That " Mitchell's School Geography and Atlas," — last 
edition — be introduced as a class-book into the Public Schools of 
the First School District. 

The above resolution was agreed to. 

From the minutes. 

R. PENN SMITH, Secretary. 



CATALOGUE OP SCHOOL BOOKS. 



The following Teachers have recommended the Geographical 
Works in strong terms. 

JOHN FROST, Professor of the High School. 
WM. VOGDES, Professor of the High School. 
WM. ROBERTS, Principal Teacher in the Moyamensing 

Public School. 
ANN DOLBY, Principal Teacher in the Moyamensing 

Public School for Girls. 
JOHN M. COLEMAN, Prin. New Market St. Pub. Sch. 
W. W. WOOD, Prin. of the South- West Pub. Sch. for Boys. 
JAMES RHOADS, Prin. of North- West Grammar School. 
JANE MITCHELL, Prin. of North- West School for Girls. 
WM. S. CLE AVENGER, Prin. of the Locust St. Pub. Sch. 
W. H PILE, Prin. of the North-Eastern Public School. 
LYDIA E. SMITH, Principal S. W. School for Females. 

A. C. HUTTON, Principal of Lombard Street School. 
BELINDA TAYLOR, Prin. of the N. E. Girls' School. 
LEONARD BLISS, Jr., Professor of Belles-Letters and 

History, Louisville College, Kv. 
FRANCIS E. GODDARD, Louisville, Ky. 
JOHN FREEMAN CLARKE, Agent of City Schools, 

Louisville, Ky. 
D. M. GAZLAY, Louisville, Ky. 

B. B. SMITH, Super, of Pub. Instruc. for the Common- 

wealth of Ky. 

CHARLES CRANE, Principal Prep. Dep. Trans. Uni- 
versity, Ky. 

EDWARD WINTHROP, Professor of Sacred Literature in 
the Theo. Sem. of Ky. 

JOSIAH GAVER, Principal of the City Public Schools, 
Lexington, Ky. 

The undersigned Committee of the Board of Trustees and Visi- 
ters of Common Schools for the city of Cincinnati, having examin- 
ed " Mitchell's Geography and Atlas," are fully satisfied of their 
great merit and utility, and have no hesitation in recommending 
them to the Board for introduction, as superior to any similar pro- 
ductions now in use in the schools ; a distinction to which they con- 
sider them fully entitled, not only in reference to the geographical 
arrangement, materials and execution, but as to the general 
plan and accuracy of the work, the improved style of colour- 
ing, the facility of reference and exact agreement between the Atlas 
and the text-book, and the regular periodical revision by which it is 
proposed to keep pace with the actual progress of knowledge and 
civilization throughout the globe. Under these impressions, the 
Committee unanimously concur in recommending for adoption the 
following resolution : — 

Resolved, By the Board of Trustees and Visiters of Common 
Schools for the city of Cincinnati, that Mitchell's School Geography, 
with its accompanying Atlas, be, and it is hereby adopted, as one 
of the regular Class- Books of said Common Schools; the introduc- 



THOMAS, COWPERTIIWAIT &. CO.'s 



tion thereof to be gradually effected, in conformity with the stand- 
ing regulations of the Board on that subject. 

(Signed) PEYTON S. SYMMES, 

ELAM P. LANGDON, 
JOHN P. FOOTE, 
RICHARD DE CHARMS. 

City Clerk's Office, Cincinnati. 
I certify that the above report and the resolution attached thereto 
were unanimously adopted by the Board of Trustees and Visiters 
of the Common Schools of the city of Cincinnati, on the 22d inst. 
CHAS. SATTERLY, City Clerk. 

MITCHELL'S ANCIENT GEOGRAPHY. 

An Ancient, Classical and Sacred Geography ; embellished with 
Engravings of Remarkable Events, Views of Ancient Cities, and 
various interesting Antique Remains ; and illustrated by an An- 
cient Atlas. By S. Augustus Mitchell. Price, $1 25 cts. 

A good system of Ancient Geography in the English language, 
drawn from authentic sources, with cuts illustrative of Ancient cus- 
toms, places, temples, and other buildings and remarkable events, 
accompanied with a complete set of Maps of the World as known 
to the ancients; Asia Minor, Greece, Italy, the Roman Empire; 
the world as known to the Israelites, a Map of Canaan, with part 
of Egypt, and the route of the Israelities through the Desert; plans 
of Ancient Rome, Jerusalem, &c, was very much wanted by 
teachers of Sabbath Schools, and the members of Bible Classes ; and 
such a one, so far as we are able to judge, we are happy to say, is 
now presented to the public in a very attractive form. The cuts in 
the Geography are exceedingly well done, and the Maps in the 
Atlas are equally well engraved, and equally well printed. — New 
York Christian Advocate. 

This work should be in every Sabbath School, as well as every 
family where the Bible and History are studied. We believe it 
very well planned and faithful. — New York Tribune. 

It is the best treatise on Ancient Geography, which we know of 
in English. * * * * The work is written in the naive and simple 
syle of the excellent books which have made the author's name 
familiar to every school-boy in the land. — Harbinger. 

Most cordially do we recommend this work for the use of Schools 
and Families, and much of it as highly appropriate to the Bible 
Class. — Boston Recorder. 

A good Ancient Atlas has long been wanted for our higher 
classes in the common schools, and other institutions. Butler's 
work is too dear, and Worcester's too incomplete and incorrect. 
This want is in a great measure supplied by the work before us. — 
Cincinnati Gazette. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 



MITCHELL'S ATLAS OF OUTLINE MAPS, 
An accompaniment to the School Atlas. Possessing all the advan- 
tages to be derived from Map-drawing, with a great saving of 
time. Price, 34 cts. 

MITCHELL'S KEY 
To the study of Maps, comprising his Atlas, in a series of lessons 
for beginners in Geography. Price, 17 cts. 

MITCHELL'S HIGH SCHOOL GEOGRAPHY, 
With an Atlas, (preparing,) will contain about 800 pages, and com- 
prise a complete system of Mathematical, Physical, Political, Sta- 
tistical and Descriptive Modern Geography, together with a 
Compendium of Ancient Geography, illustrated by Engravings 
executed by the first Artists of the country. The Atlas to accom- 
pany the above will contain not less than 30 Maps, constructed 
particularly for the work, and designed to correspond with and 
illustrate it in the most precise manner. 

A COMPLETE KEY TO MITCHELL'S SCHOOL 

GEOGRAPHY, By J. E. Carroll, 

Containing full answers to all the questions on Maps, with much 

additional information from the most recent and authentic sources. 

12mo. half roan, SI 00. 
To the teachers, this volume will be found a convenient and 
satisfactory aid in imparting instruction, as well as to those who 
desire to refresh their memories upon the important subject of Geo- 
graphy. It is primarily adapted to Mr. Mitchell's valuable and 
popular School Geography and Atlas, but in addition contains a 
large amount of statistical and descriptive pertinent matter, com- 
piled from the most recent and reliable sources, rendering it a de- 
sirable book for every public and private library. It will be found 
to contain an account of the recent geographical discoveries, and 
political divisions, and as a whole, affords a species of information 
required in the every day business of life, that it is not so much an 
honor to know, as it is a disgrace to be ignorant of. Its utility 
cannot fail to give it an extended circulation, as soon as its merits 
are sufficiently known. 

It is admirably adapted to the wants of all, either studying or 
teaching the important branch of Geographical science. * * * W e 
know of no work that is more needed in this day, as an academic, 
family or Common School book, than this; nothing of the kind hav- 
ing ever been published. J. McCLUSKEY, A. M. 



GREENE'S ANALYSIS. 

A TREATISE ON THE STRUCTURE OF THE ENG- 
LISH LANGUAGE; or the Analysis and Classification of 
Sentences and their Component Parts ; with Illustrations and 



THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO.'s 



Exercises, adapted to the Use of Schoois. By Samuel S. 
Greene, A. M., Principal of the Phillips' Grammar School, 
Boston. Philadelphia, 1848 Price, 45 cts. f^> This Work 
has already reached the sixth edition in the space of four 
months. 

This book has already obtained a very extensive circulation. It 
has recently been introduced into the Public Schools in Boston, 
and in many of the Schools in Pittsburg, Cincinnati, St. Louis. 
Vicksburg, &c. &c, and is highly recommended by all who have 
examined it. 

Extract of a Letter from Mr. Joshua Pearly Principal of the Pub- 
lic School, in the City of Natchez, Mississippi. 
Mr D. M. Warren presented to me for inspection, several school 
books, and among others " Greene's Analysis." I must, injustice 
to the author and my own feelings, say, " I have found it, I have 
found it." I have been teaching the classics and English branches 
since my graduation at Yale College, in 1836. I have followed 
Professor Andrews' course of syntactical parsing, and of analyzing 
sentences, and have long felt the need of a similar work in English, 
or for the English language. Your Analysis not only meets my 
wishes, but far exceeds what I could expect embodied in a work for 
this purpose. 

From M. F. Cowdery, Chairman of the Executive Committee of the 
Ohio State Teachers' 1 Association. 
I, and some of my friends, teachers in this state, have given 
the work our examination, and we think so highly of it that we 
shall use it ourselves, and urge its general introduction into the 
schools of Ohio. 

From H. J. Ripley, of Newton Centre, Massachusetts. 

Permit me gratefully to acknowledge the reception of your recent 
work on " the Structure of the English Language." I regard it 
with interest, as contributing to a more philosophical developement 
of the language to beginners, and as making grammatical exercises 
more intelligible and interesting. I hope it will be extensively 
used. 

Extractfrom a Letter of George Jaques, Esq., of Worcester, Mas- 
sachusetts. 

I have received and examined with considerable care the copy of 
your " Analysis," which you did me the favor to send to me. As 
a text book for advanced classes, 1 am highly pleased with it, so 
much so that I shall use such influence as I have with my associates 
of the school committee of this town to introduce it into our High 
School, at the commencement of the summer term, about the first 
of May next. 

Allow me to congratulate you, my dear sir, on having done so 
good a work for the literature of a language which the fierce and 
terrible Anglo-Saxon, either by the arts of war or of peace, seems 
destined to make the common tongue of all mankind. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 



From the Christian Review. 
We like the book much, — it is just what is wanted in our Gram- 
mar Schools ; and if accompanied by an abridgement, for the 
younger pupils, which the author proposes in his preface to pre- 
pare, will leave but little to be desired for the purposes of ordinary 
instruction in Grammar, in our schools. The plan is simple, and 
is developed with great consistency and logical ability. Starting 
with the simplest form of a sentence, which contains barely a sub- 
ject and a predicate, the author proceeds to cluster around either 
one or the other of these, all the words and phrases contained in 
the most complicated sentence, and. explain their relations, till the 
pupil is able, at sight, to resolve any sentence into its parts. 

Copy of a Letter from Air. Elbridge Smith, Principal of the 
Cambridge High School. 
Dear Sir, — I have examined with great pleasure the Grammar 
which you did me the honor to send me. I have no hesitation in 
saying that I consider it the best English Grammar in existence. 
This, I am aware, some will regard as extravagant praise. I am 
not, however, alone in my opinion. Indeed I know of no one who 
has given attention to the subject, who is not of the same opinion. 

Copy of a Letter from Mr. Edward Wyman, Principal of the St. 
Louis English and Classical High School. 
I have introduced Greene's Analysis into my school, having 
formed a class of about thirty pupils in it. It is certainly a very supe- 
rior text book, its plan of instruction being replete with sound sense 
and practical philosophy. It is so entirely different from ordinary 
compilations on the subject, that the veteran teacher is perhaps, on 
his first examination of the work, a little likely to find his establish- 
ed prejudices shocked ; but a few days use of the Grammar will dis- 
sipate all his fears, and convince him that he is in possession of a 
book he wishes he had always had. I would not part with it on 
any consideration. 

INTRODUCTION TO GREENE'S ANALYSIS. 12mo., 
half roan. Price, 34 cts. 



CHANDLER'S COMMON SCHOOL GRAMMAR. 

A Grammar of the English Language, adapted to the use of the 
Schools of America. By Joseph R. Chandler, editor of the 
United States Gazette: 12mo., pp. 208. Price, 38 cts. 

This work, published but a few months since, has already been 
introduced into many of the Public and Private Schools through- 
out the Union, and is rapidly winning its way to popular favour. 
This Grammar has been adopted in the Girard College, and has 
already passed through 15 Editions. Want of space prevents us 
from inserting all the recommendations received ; the following, 



THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO.'s 



however, will be all sufficient to call attention to the work, and be- 
speak for it a candid examination. 

WARD SCHOOLS OF NEW YORK. 
The undersigned, Commissioners and Inspectors of Common 
Schools of the 13th Ward, having, with much care and delibera- 
tion, examined Chandler's Grammar of the English Language, 
are of opinion that for scientific arrangement, happy illustration, 
and judicious application of the principles of Grammar to Lan- 
guage, it is unequalled by any work of the kind extant. We have, 
therefore, adopted it to be used in the Ward Schools under our 
charge. 

WILLIAM A.WALTERS, 

JAMES H. COOK, 
Chas. D. Field, Inspector. 



> Commissioners. 



The undersigned, having examined Chandler's English Gram- 
mar with a view to ascertain its adaptation to the purpose of teach- 
ing, take great pleasure in recommending the same as a work of 
superior merit. 

The prominent features which seem to recommend the book 
strongly to the undersigned, are, first, the system of commencing 
the study with the business of inductive parsing ; the introduction 
of the different parts of speech progressively ; with a correct re- 
ference to definitions, together with the uniform simplicity of ex- 
planation. 

It is the only text -book on this subject now in use in Ward 
School No. 19, containing over twelve hundred pupils. 
W. C. Kibb, Principal Male Department Ward School No. 19. 
J. D. Demitt, Assistant, do. do. 

G. W. Petit, do. do. 

Harriet N. Goldley, Principal Female, do. 

We the undersigned having examined Chandler's Grammar, do 
not hesitate to say that in its adaption as a text-book for schools, it 
surpasses all others of the kind that has come under our notice. 
We are so well pleased with it that we have adopted it in our 
schools. 

Dwight & Brown, Principal of Brooklyn High School. 
Salmon Phelps, Principal Classical and English do. 
John Van Ness, Principal English and Commercial School. 
Miss Helen M. Phelps, Principal Young Ladies' Seminary. 
Mrs. L. Townsend, Principal Select School. 
Walter Chrisholme, A. M., Rector of the Brooklyn Grammar 

School. 
Rev. Henry Clark, Principal Classical High School. 
V. Thompson, Principal Brooklyn Union Institute. 

Brooklyn, N. Y., September 11, 1847. 

From Professor E. H. Jenny, A. M. 

Having examined Chandler's Grammar of the English Lan- 
guage, I am fully prepared to say that I think it the best book of 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 



the kind that I have seen in the whole course of years of experience 
in teaching. I shall most assuredly adopt it as the text-book on 
Grammar in the school under my direction. 

Principal New York Institute, 20 East Broadway. 

This is decidedly one of the best Grammars we know of — its 
plan is somewhat novel, but admirably devised and arranged. — Bos- 
ton Pilot. 



SWAN'S SCHOOL READERS. 

THE PRIMARY SCHOOL READER, PART I. 

Which is intended for beginners. It contains a lesson upon each 
of the Elementary Sounds in the language, Exercises in Sylla- 
bication, and a few simple, interesting Stories for Children ; and 

. is designed to aid the teacher in laying the foundation for an ac- 
curate and distinct articulation. Price, 10 cts. 

THE PRIMARY SCHOOL READER, PART II. 

Contains Exercises in Articulation, arranged in connection with 
easy Reading Lessons. The utility of this arrangement will be 
obvious to every experienced teacher, as it will tend to secure daily 
attention to this important subject. Price, 17 cts. 

THE PRIMARY SCHOOL READER, PART III. 

Is designed for the First Class in Primary Schools, and for the 
Lowest Class in Grammar Schools — thus enabling the pupil to 
review his studies after entering the Grammar School. Price, 
27 cents. 

THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL READER, 

Is designed for the Middle Classes in Grammar Schools. It con- 
tains Exercises in Articulation, arranged in connection with 
Reading Lessons. Price, 45 cents. 

THE DISTRICT SCHOOL READER, 

Is designed for the Highest Classes in Public and Private Schools. 
It contains Exercises in Articulation, Pauses, Inflections of the 
"Voice, &c, with such Rules and Suggestions as are deemed use- 
ful to the learner. It also contains a complete Glossary of the 
classical allusions which occur in the Reading Lessons. Price, 
80 cents. 

This popular series of books was compiled by Mr. William D. 
Swan, the well known Principal of the Mayhew School, Boston. 
From the very general and rapid introduction into schools they 
have obtained throughout the principal cities and towns of the 
United States, it is believed that they are better adapted to the 
wants of schools than any others. 

Numerous recommendations, from teachers and friends of educa- 
tion, are in the hands of the Publishers, among which are letters 
from the following distinguished teachers. 



M 



10 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO.'s 

Thomas Sherwin, A. M., Principal of the English High School, 

Boston. 
Barnum Field, Principal of the Franklin High School, Boston. 
Samuel S. Greene, Principal of the Phillips School, Boston. 
Joshua Bates, Jr., do do Brimmer do. 

Jcsiah A. Stearns, do do Mather do. 

Isaac F. Shepard, do do Otis do. 

George B. Hyde, do do D wight do. 

J. D. Philbrick, Principal of the Gtuincy School, Boston. 
William A. Shephard, do do do. 

D. P. Page, Principal of the New York State Normal School, 

Albany. 
P. H. Sweets er, do Harved School, Charlestown. 

Elbridge Smith, do Classical and English High School, 

Cambridge. 

C. C. Dame, do English High School, Newbury- 

port. 
Hon. Francis Dwight, late of Albany, New York. 
James D. Batchelder, Principal of Grammar School, Marblehead. 
Charles Edwards, 
Charles W. Goodnow, 
Alonzo Tripp, 
J. B. Fairfield, 

D. P. Galloup, 
Albert Lackey, 
Joseph Williams, 
Charles Northend, 
Oliver Carlton, 
Edwin Jocelyn, 
Jacob Batchelder, Jr., 
William S. Williams,^ 
Amasa Davenport, 
Elwell Woodbury, 
William T. Adams, 
John Cap en, 
Isaac Swan, J 
George Newcomb, Teacher of Gtuincy Grammar School. 

E. Wyman, Principal of the English and Classical High School, 

St. Louis, Mo. 
Charles A. Lord, A. M., late Professor in Marion College, Ohio. 
Z. Grover, Principal of Prospect street School," 
L. B. Nichols, do Arnold 
J. D. Giddings, do Fountain 

C. Farnum, do Elam, do do. \ Providence, R. I. 

Amos Perry, do Summer 
(S. S. Ashley, do Meeting 

C. T. Keith, do Benefit 
Ebenezer Harvey, i 
Benjamin Evans, > Principals of Grammar Schools, New Bedford. 
Cyrus BaHlett, ) 

D. C. Holmes, Principal of the Sixth Ward School, Pittsburgh, 

Pennsylvania. 



do 


do 


do. 


do 


Academy at Concord, Mass. 


do 


Union Seminary 


Fairhaven. 


do 


Brown School, Salem. 


do 


Hacker do 


do. 


do 


Pickering r do 


do. 


do 


Phillips do 


do. 


do 


Epes do 


do. 


do 


Fish do 


do. 


do 


Salstonstall, do- 


do. 


do 


Grammar School, 


Lynn. 



Teachers of the Dorchester Grammar 
Schools. 




CATALOGUE OP SCHOOL BOOKS. 11 

G. A. Poot, Principal of the Brighton Grammar School, Pitts- 
burgh, Pennsylvania. 

Extract from the Records of the School Committee of the City of 
Boston. 
" In School Committee, May 5, 1844. 
Ordered, That the ' Primary School Reader, Part Third,' by 
William D, Swan, be introduced into the Grammar Schools, as 
the Reading Book for the Fourth Class, in the room of the Gradual 
Reader. Attest, S. F. McCLEARY, Sec'^." 

{, In School Committee, Nov. 7. 1844. 
Ordered, That ' Swan's Grammar School Reader,' be intro- 
duced into our Grammar Schools, as the reading book of the Second 
and Third Classes. 

Attest, S. F. McCLEARY, Sec'y* 

Office of the St. Louis Public Schools, 
July 6, 1848. 
At an adjourned meeting this day held, of the Directors of St. 
Louis Public Schools, 

Resolved, That Swan's series of School Books take the place of 
the Eclectic series in the St. Louis Public Schools. 

Signed, JOHN D. DAGGETT, Sec'y. 

This series of School Readers has also been introduced into the 
Girard College, Philadelphia, the principal Schools in Pittsburg, 
Allegheny City, and many other of the western Cities and Towns. 

From Thomas Sherwin, Principal of the English High School, 
Boston. 
Accept my thanks for a copy of your series of Readers, which 
you have kindly sent me as they were issued from the press. I 
have carefully examined these volumes myself, and have heard, in 
private, the uniformly favorable opinions of many gentlemen well 
qualified to judge of their merits. Allow me to say, that 1 think 
they are admirably adapted to the objects for which they are de- 
signed, and that I heartily recommend them to the favor of all inte- 
rested in the cause of English education. 

From E. Wyman, A. M., Principal of the English and Classical 
High School, St. Louis. 
Oi; the first announcement of your series of Reading Books, I 
was prepared to expect some decided improvement upon all similar 
works in use; and in a subsequent careful examination of them, I 
find myself in no respect disappointed. The philosophical arrange- 
ment of the elementary principles of good reading (treated as an 
art and a science) is an important and valuable characteristic of 
the books ; the rejection of emblems is another ; and the unexcep- 
tionable character of the contents, another. In short, these books 
are just such as, in the hands of a skilful teacher, must lead to a 
nice discrimination, a distinct articulation, and a fluent utterance 
of the elements of our language. The books are valuable, and I 
shall labor to introduce them. 



12 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO.'s 

From Samuel S Greene, Principal of the Phillips Grammar 
School, Boston. 

I have examined your series of Reading Books, and am happy to 
say that I am much pleased with them. The plan seems to me admi- 
rably fitted to accomplish the important work of developing the or- 
gans of speech, and of securing a graceful and easy elocution. I 
cordially commend the books to the attention of teachers and school 
committees. 

From Joshua Bales, Jr., Principal of the Brimmer Grammar 
School, Boston. 

I most cheerfully and fully concur with Mr. Greene, in his re- 
commendation of your series of Reading Books. 

From Charles A. Lord, A M, {late Professor in Marion Col- 
lege,} and Teacher of Languages in Wy man's English and 
Classical High School, St. Louis. 

In expressing my opinion of Swan's Readers, I am aware that 
more books have been prepared, while less good has been attained, 
in this than in any other branch of elementary education. 

Never having had systematic, philosophical treatises for juvenile 
instruction, our youth have acquired a vitiated enunciation, that 
has grown with their growth, and strengthened with their years, 
until, in manhood, often they have been obliged to place themselves 
under tuition for the correction of the errors of youth. I think Mr. 
Swan has perfected a system, which, commenced with the abece- 
darian, and continued while the organs are susceptible of improve- 
ments and the mind of impression, will prove most successful in 
making good readers. 

Indeed, I believe we can say of this, what can be said of no 
other similar work, that it will be difficult for youth to go through 
it, under ordinary teachers, without becoming good elocutionists. 

From D. C. Holmes, Principal of the Sixth Ward School, Pitts- 
burgh, Pennsylvania. 

I have used " Swan's Series of Readers," for the last six months, 
and unsolicited, wish to add my testimony in their favor. 

Apart from the character of the selections, which in general 
evince much taste, the preliminary lessons in articulation at the 
head of almost every chapter, stamp the Series with a peculiar ex- 
cellence, and supply a deficiency, which, in common with many of 
the profession, I have long felt and sought, with but partial success, 
to remedy. 

The author, in my opinion, has shown sound judgment in 
making these practical exercises run through the entire Series ; 
thus giving due prominence to the training of the vocal organs, a 
matter of great importance, but one which has hitherto been almost 
wholly neglected in the preparation of our elementary books. In 
the very few works that contain any thing like instruction in arti- 
culation, if we except one or two, the subject is very imperfectly 
treated, and thrown for the most part in a condensed form into an 
Introduction, where it is almost certain to be neglected by both 
teacher and pupils. It is one of the excellencies of Mr. Swan's 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 13 



Readers that the exercises in articulation are systematized, made 
highly practical, and so arranged as to meet the eye at the proper 
time and place. 

Tn conclusion, I am free to say, that I know of no series of Read- 
ing Books which combines so many desirable qualities with so few 
faults, as this: — and none which, if used according to the Author's 
intention, would insure to the learner an equal amount of progress. 
Froth Borzillai Frost, Pastor of First Church, Concord, Mass. 

I have a high opinion of Swan's Series of Reading Books. The 
character of the pieces is well adapted to the ages and capacities of 
those for whom they are designed. But their chief excellence, in 
my view, is that they call the attention of both teachers and pupils 
to all the errors, as well as true elements of reading, and give an 
exercise on each, in such a manner as to root out bad habits and 
fix good ones. It was the unanimous opinion of the School Com- 
mittee, in this town, that the scholars, during the first winter after 
this Series of Books were introduced into our schools, learned to 
read more than in the three preceding years put together. 

THE INSTRUCTIVE READER. 
The Instructive Reader, or a Course of Reading in Natural His- 
tory, Science, and Literature, designed for the use of Schools. 
By WM. D. Swan, Principal of the Mayhew Grammar School, 
Boston. 12mo., pp. 288. Price, G2£ cts. 

This work is very appropriately entitled " The Instructive 
Reader," It consists of judicious selections from writings rich in 
the materials of thought, and in useful instructions on a great varie- 
ty of subjects, connected with our physical and moral nature, and 
with great laws and facts elucidated in works on Chemistry, Natural 
History and Philosophy. These valuable lessons are accompanied 
with others, no less important, inculcating the principles of com- 
mon sense and experience, which form the basis of natural and 
civil rights, and with choice selections in poetry and other works of 
a literary character. — Christian Observer. 

The Instructive Reader. — This is the title of a new work 
designed to be used as a school book for reading classes. It is de- 
signed to furnish a course of reading in Natural History, Science 
and Literature. It has been prepared for that purpose by Wm, D. 
Swan, the well known Principal of the Mayhew School, of this 
city. It has been lying on our table several weeks, that we might 
take the time to examine it thoroughly, and be able to speak of its 
merits understandingly. The want of such a volume for the use 
of the older classes in grammar schools has long been sensibly felt. 
This want was brought into prominent notice in the Boston School 
Board a little more than a year since by the admirable report of the 
Chairman of the Book Committee, in which the need and impor- 
tance of blending instruction with reading lessons — of combining 
with instruction in elocution the materials of a great variety of 
thought, by means of selections adapted for reading, and at the 
same time " suited to supply the great want of every human being, 
considered as a resident on earth, the knowledge of the laws of his 



14 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT &, CO.'s 

own nature, physically, and in connection with other beings, and 
the facts and laws of the creation." Among the last are especially 
suggested the facts of our physical structure and our moral nature, 
the laws of health, the laws of external nature, the phenomena of 
light, heat, electricity, gravity, the facts and laws of natural science. 
&c. 

The suggestions of this report have led to the preparation of this 
volume, for which all those who are interested in education, and all 
those who have from their official position felt for the want of such 
a volume, have reason to feel under great obligations to Mr. Swan, 
for the admirable manner in which he has fulfilled the task he took 
upon himself to do, and met a want which is so sensibly felt in our 
schools. We have examined this volume thoroughly, and are hap- 
py to be able to state that it is well calculated to supply, to a very 
great extent, the want it is designed to relieve. Of course, in the 
preparation of such a volume, it was not to be expected that the 
first effort would reach the standard each one would, in his own 
mind, establish for a work of the kind; yet we feel bound to say 
that Mr. Swan has been more nearly successful than we supposed, 
under the circumstances, to be possible. The work he has com- 
piled is admirably suited for its purpose, and though, as all works 
of the kind must be, from the nature of things, it is capable of en- 
largement that will improve it, yet it is well worthy the immediate 
favor of all those who have under their charge the instruction of 
youth. — Boston Daily Atlas. 

Coyy of a Letter from J. D. Philbrick, Principal of the Qaincy 
School, Boston. 

I am happy to embrace the earliest opportunity to assure you, 
that I entertain a very high opinion of your new " Reader," the 
"proofs" of which you submitted to my inspection. It is well 
named the " Instructive Reader," for it contains a greater amount 
of useful information than any other School Reader with which I 
am acquainted. I wish it might be put into the hands of every 
child in the land. It is emphatically the book for the million, that 
is, the book which the million ought to read. A reader containing 
such a store of valuable knowledge, so well arranged, in so attrac- 
tive a form, and so well adapted to the tastes and capacities of the 
young, cannot fail to receive a hearty welcome among intelligent 
teachers, and especially among those who have arrived at the con- 
clusion that a more substantial mental diet might be substituted 
very profitably for a large portion of the rhetorical dainties with 
which most series of Class Readers are filled. 

Copy of a Letter from Mr. D. P. Galloup, Principal of the 
Hacker School, Salem, Massachusetts. 

1 have recently received a copy of your " Instructive Reader." 
From the examination which I have given it, 1 like it much, both 
in design and execution. I hope the Committee will give us the 
privilege of using it in our schools. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 



15 



WILMSEN'S READER,, OR THE CHILDREN'S 
FRIEND. 

Translated and adapted to the use of Schools in the United States, 
by Wm. Wells, Teacher of Modern Languages. Sixth 
American, from the one hundred and fiftieth German Edition. 
Price, 62 cts. 

This work combines, in a greater degree than any other that 
we have examined, information that is both useful and interesting 
to the young reader. We predict that it will be very popular in 
our Schools. — Massachusetts Spy. 

The name of the author is familiarly known in the cottages as 
well as in the mansions of the wealthy in Germany, and this work, 
after having gone through one hundred and fifty editions, continues 
to stand unrivalled in its class. The introduction of such a work 
is calculated to raise the standard of our educational literature. — 
Albany Evening Journal. 

* * It is called the Children's Friend, and its easy and instructive 
lessons render it eminently deserving of that title. — Public Ledger. 

Extract from the Minutes of the School Committee of the City 
of Boston. 

In School Committee, August 30, 1847. 
Ordered, That " Wilmsen's Children's Friend," may take the 
place of the Sequel to popular lessons 

Attest, S. F. McCLEARY, Secretary. 



FROST'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. 

History of the United States, for the use of Schools and Academies, 

by John Frost, Illustrated with Forty Engravings. 12mo. 

Price, 83 cents. 

I am glad to see that the " History of the United States," 
which you announced some time since, has made its appearance. I 
have beefi gratified with the perusal of the volume ; and I take 
pleasure in saying that it appears to me in every respect well exe- 
cuted. It avoids the fault with which most compilations are charge- 
able — that of merely sketching a general outline of events, too brief 
and abstract to gain the attention of the student. It is free at the 
same time, from injudicious prolixity and detail. 

The style is clear, concise and spirited ; free on the one hand from 
the ambitious and rhetorical character, and on the other, from the 
negligence and inaccuracy into which most of our popular com- 
pends have fallen. 

As a history of the United States, it is, in my opinion, more full 
and more exact than any of the same size, and in all other respects 
preferable, as a book intended to aid the business of instruction. 
WILLIAM RUSSELL, 
Editor of the American Journal of Education, 1st series. 



16 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT &, CO.'s 

We fully concur in the sentiments above expressed: 

G. J. HOPPER, M. BEARSLEY, 

RTJFUS LOCK WOOD, WM. H. WYCROFF, 

ROYAL MANN, THEO. W. PORTER, 

JOHN OAKLY, C. C. JENNINGS, 

HENRY SWORDS, ROBERT J. FURNEY, 

GEORGE INGRAM, AARON RAND, 

J. C. TREADWELL, EDM. D. BARRY, D. D., 

jos. m c keen, Principal of a Classical 

f. s. worth, Academy. 

WM FORREST, SAMUEL GARDNER, 

F. A. STREETER, D. STENENS, 

JAMES LAWSON, SAMUEL BROWN, 

DAVID SCHOYER, JOSEPH M. ELY, 

SOLOMON JENNER, P. PERRINE, 

JOS. CHAMBERLAIN, SAMUEL RICHARDS, 

Joseph moony, New York. 

C. W. NICHOLS, 

FROST'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. 

For the use of Common Schools, condensed from the author's 
larger History of the United States. 18mo. Price, 45 cts. 

The following are selected from a large number of recommenda- 
tions of the above work, which have been received by the publishers. 
It has been adopted by the Controllers of the Public Schools of the 
City and County of Philadelphia, and by other committees of 
public schools in various parts of the country. 

From Charles Henry Alden, Principal of the Philadelphia 
High School for Girls. 

" Frost's History of the United States" is a Text-book in my 
school, and is justly a favourite. I have often regretted that an edi- 
tion, in a smaller volume, with numerous illustrative engravings, 
was not furnished for the use of junior classes and common schools. 
I am glad, therefore, to see what I thought a desideratum, and in a 
style, and at a price so well adapted to the purposes intended. This 
volume, 1 find, is abridged from the large volume very judiciously, 
and can be recommended very confidently to general use. There 
is no history of our country, in my opinion, at all comparable with 
it as a common school book. 

I judge "Frost's History of the United States" to be a most ex- 
cellent epitome of American History. Many interesting and im- 
portant facts relative to American affairs, in other works of the 
kind omitted, are therein judiciously introduced. The simplicity 
and elegance of the style cannot fail to please every attentive 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 17 

reader. The appendix, containing the constitution of our beloved 
land, as also a useful chronological table, will render the work 
doubly valuable. WM. ALEXANDER, 

Teacher of Languages, Philadelphia. 
This is to certify that " Frost's History of the United States" 
has been adopted as a class book by the Controllers of the Public 
Schools of the First School District of Pennsylvania, and is in gene- 
ral use in the Public Schools of the City and Countv of Philadel- 
phia. R. PENN SMITH, 

Secretary of the Board of Controllers. 

These invaluable Histories are also introduced into the Schools 
of New York, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, St. Louis, New 
Orleans, &c, and have recently been adopted by the Superintend- 
ent of Public Schools in Arkansas. 

f^|f The above works have recently been revised by the author, 
and brougnt down to the occupation of the city of Mexico by Gen. 
Scott. 

FROST'S AMERICAN SPEAKER. 
The American Speaker; comprising a comprehensive Treatise on 
Elocution, and an extensive Selection of Specimens of American 
and Foreign Eloquence. Embellished with engraved Portraits of 
distinguished American Orators, on steel. By J. Frost, author 
of the 3 History of the United States. 12mo. Price, 83 cts. 

The design of this work is to furnish a correct and satisfactory 
Treatise on the Principles of Elocution in a small space ; and a 
very rich and copious collection of specimens of Deliberative, 
Forensic, Academic, and Popular Eloquence, filling up the greater 
portion of the volume. It has met with a very rapid sale, thousands 
of copies having been sold since its publication. The estimation in 
which it is held by intelligent teachers has been attested by recom- 
mendations from every quarter. 



JARVIS' PHYSIOLOGY. 

PRACTICAL PHYSIOLOGY; for the use of Schools and 
Families. By Edward Jarvis, M. D. Philadelphia, 1818. 
Price, 88 cts. 

This popular work has attracted much attention, and has al- 
ready been very extensively introduced into Schools and Academies 
throughout the country. It has been favorably received by the 
press,°an<i numerous letters of Recommendation from some of our 
most celebrated Physicians and Teachers are in the hands of the 
Publishers 

Copy of a Letter from John C. Warren, M. D., of Boston, Pro- 
fessor of Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard University. 
I have examined with some care Dr. Jarvis's " Practical Physi- 
ology for the use of Schools and Families." The manner in which 



13 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO.'s 

the doctrines of Physiology are there displayed, I had already been 
acquainted with in another form. On looking over this work, for 
the purpose of refreshing my recollection, I have come to the con- 
clusion that it is well adapted, by its accuracy, comprehensiveness, 
and the popular language in which it is expressed, to be a proper 
and valuable book for the purpose which it was destined to fulfill. 

From Rev. Addison Brown, County Superintendent of Common 
Schools, and Teacher of a Normal School in Brattleboro, Vt. 

I have used your Physiology in my Normal School and 
Teacher's Institute two terms. I have had two classes go through 
it pretty thoroughly and carefully, and I am happy to say, that the 
book gave, both to the pupils and myself, entire satisfaction. 

I think it admirably adapted to the purpose for which it was writ- 
ten, and should rejoice to learn that every family in the laud was 
possessed of a copy of it, and that it was studied in all our schools 
it is written in an easy, clear style ; the arrangement _ methodical, 
the illustrations copious and to the purpose ; and it is not only a 
good book to study, but also a very interesting one to read. 1 hope 
this work, so popular in its character, and so scientific and thorough 
in execution, will be the means and instrument of rendering the 
study of Physiology common throughout our country. 

From Joseph Ray, M. D., Professor of Mathematics, Natural 

Philosophy and Chemistry, of Woodward College, Cincinnati, 

Ohio. 

I have examined with considerable care and much interest, a 
new work on Physiology for schools, &c, by Dr. Edward Jarvis. 
The subject of which it treats is of the highest importance to the 
happiness and well being of every individual ; and should occupy 
a place in every system of education. 

The work of Dr. Jarvis is clear, intelligible, and interesting, and 
in my opinion, is well calculated for use, either as a text book in 
schools, or as a reading book in families. 

From Charles Northend, Principal of the Essex School, Salem. 

In my opinion it is much better adapted to the wants of Schools 
than any book on the same subject which I have ever seen ; and I 
sincerely hope that its appearance will greatly tend to increase the 
interest and attention of Schools in the important study of Physi- 
ology. 

Copy of a Letter from Thomas Sherwin, Principal of the English 
High School, Boston. 
Dear Sir, — I have read, with great interest, your work on 
Physiology, a copy of which you had the kindness to send me. 
The subject is of the very highest importance. Through mere 
ignorance of the laws of health, vast numbers are yearly consigned 
to a premature grave. The study of these laws, both in Schools 
and in families, cannot, therefore, be too forcibly enjoined. Your 
treatise meets a widely spread want in the community, and 1 am 
happy to recommend it to the entire public. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 19 

Copy of a Letter from William D. Swan, Principal of the May- 
hew School, Boston. 
Dear Sir, — 1 have examined your treatise upon Physiology 
with much interest. I consider it better adapted to the wants of 
Schools than any work of the kind with which 1 am acquainted. 

Copy of a Letter from J. A. Stearns, Principal of Mather 
Grammar School, Boston. 
Dr. Edward Jarvis. 

Dear Sir, — I have examined your Physiology with great satis- 
faction. It contains precisely the information needed by all classes 
of the community. While the present work is well adapted to the 
use of Academies and higher institutions, an abridgment of it, ar- 
ranged in short paragraphs, and illustrated liberally with cuts, would 
be just the thing for Public Schools. I hope it may have a wide 
circulation. 

Extract of a Letter from the Hon. Henry Cushman, of Barnards- 
town, Massachusetts. 
I am highly gratified in the perusal of your Physiology for 
Schools and Families. It is, in my judgment, precisely such a 
work as our community and our schools most need. Popular in its 
character, clear and perspicuous in its arrangement and practical 
as well as scientific in the elucidation of the subject, it appears to 
me to be well calculated to fill an important vacancy in our system of 
education, and if read and studied, as I trust it will be, it cannot 
fail to be productive of great good to the community. 

Copy of a Letter from Dr. Cowdrey, of Acton, Massachusetts. 

I have just read your work on Physiology for Schools anc Fam- 
ilies, presented through our friend Dr. Bartlett, of Concord. You 
have well named it Practical. It seemed to me when I was read- 
ing it, that you have succeeded wonderfully in comprising in so 
short a space, every thing important on this great subject, and my 
only regret was, that the book was so soon finished. 

I rejoice in the appearance of a book on Physiology, so entirely 
free from all lumbering technicals — so clear, so concise, and yet 
withal so comprehensive. 

We shall do what we can to bring it into our schools and fami- 
lies immediately. 

Extract of a Letter from R.*W. Keys, Esq., of Portney, Vt. 

Please accept my thanks for a copy of " Jarvis's Physiology," 
received some weeks since. It is unnecessary for me to speak of 
the value of the study, as it is generally conceded by all, that some 
general knowledge of the science of life is as necessary as is the 
knowledge of English Grammar, Arithmetic, &c. If perspicuity 
of style, clearness of illustration, and freedom from any thinj that 
will offend, be a standard of merit, the Author has done all that 
can be required. In the hands of a judicious teacher, it is capable 
of being made one of the most pleasant and useful of school books. 



20 THOMAS, COWPERTHWA1T & CO.'s 



Extract of a letter from Mr. C. Peirce, Pri?icipal of the West New- 
ton State Normal School, Massachusetts. 

I have just taken a class through " Jarvis's Practical Phy- 
siology." I am pleased with it decidedly, and shall continue to 
use it until I find something better. I think it well adapted to 
echools and to families, being truly scientific, without the incum- 
brance of technical phraseology. The class seemed delighted 
with the work, and by an express vote declared it to be a book 
both entertaining and instructive. It must, I think, have a large 
run, and do great service in behalf of a very important, yet much 
neglected branch of education. 

We have often wondered that Physiology has not been made, in 
all popular seminaries and schools, one of the regular and indis- 
pensable branches of a thorough English education. It is certain 
there is no more important science than that of our physical struc- 
ture and wants ; on which hangs our health, happiness and useful- 
ness as members of society. Dr. Jarvis has here produced a com 
prehensive and most excellent work, embracing the entire available 
matter of the important subject, which we heartily commend to the 
attention of teachers and families, fully assured of the truth of 
Pope's pertinent remark, that " the proper study of mankind is 
man." — Saturday Courier. 

The study of Physiology is new, strange to say, in schools ; but 
with such an excellent manual as the present, it must soon become 
general. We anticipate from it great benefit to the public. Dr. 
Jarvis deserves well of his country. — New York Tribune. 

PRIMARY PHYSIOLOGY, &c, by Edward Jarvis, M. D. 
Half roan. Price, 50 cents. 
School Committees and Teachers are invited to examine these 
popular books. 



JOHNSTON'S TURNER'S CHEMISTRY. 

A MANUAL OIJ, CHEMISTRY, 
On the basis of Dr. Turner's Elements of Chemistry, containing, 
in a condensed form, all the most important Facts and Principles 
of the Science. Designed as a Text. Book in Colleges and other 
/' Seminaries of learning. A new Edition. By John Johnston, 
A. M., Professor of Natural Science in Wesleyan University. 
Price, $1 25. 

I find, upon a careful examination of Johnston's Manual of 
Chemistry, that it is extremely well adapted to the object for which 
it is designed. As a text book, 1 regard it as superior to Turner's 
Chemistry, on which it is based, being more condensed and prac- 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 21 

tical, and yet sufficiently and equally presenting the late rapid ad- 
vancement of the science. — From Prof. Booth of the. High, School, 
Philadelphia. 

Extract from a Letter of F.Merrick, Professor of Chemistry in 
the Ohio Wesleyan University and Starling Medical College, 
Columbus, Ohio. 

Having carefully examined "Johnston's Turner's Chemistry," 
without specifying its particular excellencies, I am free to say that 
I regard it as an excellent text book. Indeed to most students in 
the higher seminaries of learning, I know of no book upon the sub- 
ject, which I would recommend in preference to it. 

From John F. Fraser, Professor of General Chemistry in the 
Franklin Institute, Philadelphia. 

1 find it to be a carefully compiled and well digested Treatise, 
and, as I believe, well adapted to serve the purpose of a text book. 

This work has been introduced into many Academies and seve- 
ral Colleges, and is held in the highest estimation. 

From J. Simmons, Principal of the Locust Street Institute for 
Young Ladies, Philadelphia. 
The arrangement of the work is judicious, and the principles of 
chemical science are developed in a style remarkable for its clear- 
ness and precision. I never before met with a Treatise on Che- 
mistry in which the subject was so thoroughly treated within so 
narrow limits. 

From Samuel Randall, Young Ladies' School, Walnut street, 
Philadelphia. 
Professor Johnston has done well in selecting Turner as a basis ; 
and by a careful and skilful revision of that excellent work, he has 
given us a book admirably adapted to the higher classes in our best 
Institutions. 

JOHNSTON'S TURNER'S ELEMENTARY CHEM- 
ISTRY, for the use of Common Schools. 1 vol. 18mo. Price, 
75 cents. 

JOHNSTON'S NATURAL PHILOSOPHY. 

A manual of Natural Philosophy, compiled from various sources, 
and designed as a Text-book in High Schools and Academies. 
By John Johnston, A. M., Professor of Naturnal Science in the 
Wesleyan University. Price, 88 cts. 

A class of young ladies in my School having recently finished 
the study of Professor Johnston's Natural Philosophy, with great 
satisfaction to both them and myself, I cannot refrain from bestow- 
ing upon the work my decided approbation. It would require too 
much space to enumerate its merits. I would merely say that, in 
my judgment, it is the best book of its kind. 

SAMUEL RANDALL, 
Young Ladies' School, Walnut Street, Philadelphia. 



N 



22 



THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO.'s 



From the Literary Record. 

This book belongs to a rare species. It is better than its design, 
and performs more than it promises. It was prepared expressly 
for the tyros of science in our High Schools and Academics; and 
while we commend its admirable adaptation to that end, we also be- 
lieve it to be equally well suited to the wants of a numerous class of 
general readers, who desire information upon physical subjects, but 
are deterred from seeking it in the larger and more abstruse treatises. 
It will also serve as a useful handbook for persons who, with little 
knowledge of Natural Philosophy, occasionally attend a public 
course of scientific lectures. We have not met with any book 
which seemed so well calculated as this to prepare the mind of an 
unscientific man to comprehend the popular lectures which are de- 
livered every winter in our large towns and cities, and to derive in- 
struction and benefit from them. 

§pf= The above excellent works of Professor Johnston are being 
rapidly introduced into both Public Schools and Private Semina- 
ries throughout the country. 



SMITH'S MATHEMATICAL SERIES. 

AMERICAN STATISTICAL ARITHMETIC. 
Designed for Academies and Schools. By Francis H. Smith, 
A. M. Superintendent and Professor of Mathematics in the Vir- 
ginia Military Institute ; late Professor of Mathematics in Hamp- 
den Sydney College, and formerly Assistant Professor in the 
United States Military Academy, West Point, and R. T. W. 
Duke, Assistant Professor of Mathematics in Virginia Military 
Institute. Third edition. Price, 38 cents. 

Extract from a letter of Professor Powers^ late of Virginia 
University, 

I consider it decidedly the best Arithmetic I have seen, not only 
as regards the valuable statistical information it contains, but also 
in its arrangement, and the very clear and simple explanations of 
the rules which it gives. 

It strikes us as an important improvement, and one which should 
not be neglected. We hope the Trustees of the Common Schools 
will give it their serious attention. — Cincinnati Gazette. 

INTRODUCTION TO SMITH AND DUKE'S ARITH- 
METIC— By Francis H. Smith, A. M. Price, 20 cts. 

KEY TO SMITH AND DUKE'S AMERICAN STATIS- 
TICAL ARITHMETIC. Prepared by Wm. Forbes, As- 
sistant Professor of Mathematics in the Virginia Military Insti- 
tute. Price, 33 cts. 

SMITH'S ELEMENTARY ALGEBRA.— An Elementary 
Treatise on Algebra: prepared for the use of the Cadets of the 
Virginia Military Institute, and adapted to the present state of 
mathematical instruction in the Schools, Academies, and Col- 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 23 

leges of the United States. By Francis H. Smith, A. M., 
Superintendent and Professor of Mathematics of the Virginia 
Military Institute; late Professor of Mathematics in Hampden 
Sidney College; and formerly an Assistant Professor in the Uni- 
ted States Military Academy, West Point ; Author of Ameri- 
can Statistical Arithmetic, etc. Price, 56 cents. 

This work is designed to present as complete an Elementary 
course of Algebra, as the time devoted to the study of Mathematics 
in the Colleges of our Country will allow ; while it will be equally 
within the comprehension of the pupil of the High School or 
Academy. 

In preparing this work, the Author has adopted those expla- 
nations and demonstrations which an experience of many years in 
teaching, and a careful comparison of standard authors, have shown 
to be best. Without following the system of any other writer, he 
has derived important aid from the works of Gamier, Bezout, 
Reynaud, Bourdon, Lacroix, Francozur, Euler, Hutton, Thom- 
son, Goodwyn, Scott, and the Encyclopedia Metropolitana. Many 
of his examples have been selected from the valuable edition of Hut- 
ton's Mathematics, by Professor Rutherford, of the Royal Military 
Academy, Woolwich. 

SMITH'S ALGEBRA. Price, 88 cents. 

From Prof. John B. Strange, Norfolk Academy. 
I have seen your " Algebra." and, after a careful examination of it, I do not hesitate 
to pronounce it an excellent work — the best on the subject that I have seen. I shall 
therefore adopt it immediately in the Academy. I am so much pleased with all vour 
mathematical works which have appeared, that I trust your labors in this department 
will not cease until you have completed the whole course. 

From A. W. MilUpocugh, Principal of the Classical School, Farmvitte. 
It gives the definitions and some of the most abstruse parts of the science with 
greater clearness and perspicuity than any similar work with which I am acquainted 
—and I also think the copious examples given a great desideratum. 

SMITH'S BIOT. An Elementary Treatise on Analytical Geo- 
metry. Translated from the French of J. B. Biot. By Francis 
H. Smith, A. M. Revised Edition. Price, $1 25 cts. 

From Prof. W. N. Pendleton. 
The work which you have translated, 1 have, ever since becoming familiar with it, 
regarded as a masterpiece in that department of mathematical science — indeed, my 
feelings respecting it have always partaken much of the enthusiastic. It bears the 
evident stamp of genius, and embodies more of the beauties of ingenuity, simplicity, 
and generalization, than any other work of that class of subjects with which my 
mathematical studies have made me acquainted. 

From Prof. Powers (late of the University of Virginia). 
* * As your Biot will be generally adopted throughout the State from its pecu- 
liar merit, as well as the source from which it emanates, &c. 

From Prof. Saunders, of William and Mary College. 
I have long lamented the defect in logical arrangement of most of the principal 
treatises on the subject of Analytical Geometry, with regard to one of its most im- 
portant applications— Conic Sections. The student is informed that thev are Conic 
Sections, because thev result from the intersection of a plane in different positions 
with the surface of a Cone, but he is put in possession of their properties before any 
proof is given to him that they are what they are called. The very last step usually 
is, to show that they are Conic Sections. The treatise of Biot comes precisely up to 
my idea o c the proper arrangement in this respect. 



24 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT &, CO.'s 

From the Princeton Review.— October, 1841. 
We are glad Professor Smith has added his contribution to our scanty stock, by 
giving us a translation of the masterly work of Biot— one of the most perfect scien- 
tific gems to be met with in any language. The original needs not our commenda- 
tion ; and of the translation, it is enough for us to say it is faitlifully executed. 



PINNOCK'S SCHOOL HISTORIES. 

PINNOCK'S ENGLAND, REVISED EDITION. 
Pinnock's improved edition of Dr. Goldsmith's History of England, 
from the invasion of Julius Caesar to the death of George the II., 
with a continuation to the year 1845 : with questions for exami- 
nation at the end of each section ; besides a variety of valuable 
information added throughout the work, consisting of Tables of 
Contemporary Sovereigns and eminent Persons, copious Ex- 
planatory Notes, Remarks on the Politics, Manners and Litera- 
ture of the Age, and an Outline of the Constitution. Illustrated 
with numerous Engravings. Forty-fifth American, corrected 
and revised from the Thirty-fifth English edition. By W. C. 
Taylor, LL. D., of Trinity College, Dublin, author of a Manual 
of Ancient and Modern History, &c. &c. Price 88 cents. 

I consider Pinnock's edition of Goldsmith's History of England 
as the best edition of that work which has as yet been published for 
the use of schools. The tables of contemporary sovereigns and 
eminent persons, at the end of each chapter, afford the means of 
many useful remarks and comparisons with the history of other 
nations. With these views, I cheerfully recommend it as a book 
well adapted to school purposes. JOHN M. KEAGY, 

Friends' Academy, Philadelphia. 

PINNOCK'S GREECE, REVISED EDITION. 

Pinnock's improved edition of Dr. Goldsmith's History of Greece. 
Revised, corrected, and very considerably enlarged, by the addition 
of several new chapters and numerous useful notes ; with questions 
for examination, at the end of each section. Twenty-fifth Ameri- 
can, from the nineteenth London edition, improved by W. C. Tay- 
lor, LL.D., of Trinity College, Dublin, author of a Manual of 
Ancient and Modern History, &c &c, with numerous Engravings, 
by Atherton and others. Price, 88 cents. 

PINNOCK'S ROME, REVISED EDITION. 

Pinnock's improved edition of Dr. Goldsmith's History of Rome. 
To which is prefixed an Introduction to the study of Roman His- 
tory, and a great variety of information throughout the work on the 
Manners, Institutions and Antiquities of the Romans ; with ques- 
tions for examination at the end of each section. Twenty-fifth 
American, from the twenty-third London edition, improved by W. 
C. Taylor, L.L. D., of Trinity College, Dublin, author of a 
Manual of Ancient and Modern History, &c. &c, with numerous 
engravings by Atherton and others. Price, 88 cts. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 25 

The great number of certificates received by the Publishers in 
favour of these Histories preclude the possibility of their insertion, 
the} 7 therefore rely upon the general reputation they have obtained 
and refer any person not acquainted with their merit to any teacher 
in their vicinity, being confident that wherever they have been used 
they cannot fail to be highly appreciated. 

PINNOCK'S FRANCE. 

History of France and Normandy, from the Earliest times to the 
Revolution of 1848, with Questions for Examination at the end 
of each Section, by W. C. Taylor, LL. D., of Trinity College, 
Dublin, author of a Manual of Ancient and Modern History, &c. 
&c , and editor of Pinnock's Improved editions of Goldsmith's 
Greece, Rome and England. Illustrated with numerous Engra- 
vings. First American from the Third English Edition. Price, 
88 cts. 

To quote the title page of this work, is to recommend it to 
parents and teachers, to our schools and Academies, and to the 
public. It is a valuable work. The history of France is the his- 
tory of human society under erery-kind of government. It is rich 
in developments of human nature, and in lessons of salutary in- 
struction for our young countrymen. The narration, clear and 
forcible, is from an accomplished writer. The numerous engrav- 
ings illustrate striking events of the history. We must add — the 
work is printed in good style, and bound in a substantial manner. 
It will, no doubt ; be judged worthy of extensive circulation, — Chris- 
tian Observer. 

A concise, yet comprehensive and accurate history, adapted to the 
use of schools, and for private instruction. This is the first Ame- 
rican from the third London edition, and we predict for it unusual 
success. We, as a nation, are watching with intense interest the 
movements of our young sister republic, and the mind naturally re- 
verts to its past history, from speculations upon its present and fu- 
ture prospects. The author, Dr. Taylor, is already well known by 
several admirable compilations, and well written histories; the Ame- 
rican editor has done little more than to insert appropriate illustra- 
tions, battle scenes, etc. etc., which are to children as the plums 
of a Christmas pudding. " There are two pictures in the lesson for 
to-morrow," we have often said joyfully — for beside the interest of 
the picture itself, there was always so much less of solid prose to be 
committed to memory. Ah, well, let the little ones have lessons 
made as easy as possible: our grandfathers would have been vastly 
better educated had Messrs. Thomas, Cowperthwait & Co's finely 
printed and well illustrated school books been attainable some eighty 
years ago. — NeaVs Saturday Gazette. 

A well written and authentic history of France possesses un- 
usual interest at the present time. It becomes especially valuable 
when, as in the present case, it has been prepared with questions as 
a text-book for common schools and seminaries, by a scholar so ac- 

_ 



26 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT &, CO.'s 

complished as Dr. Taylor. The work has passed through three 
editions in England. The American editor has added one chapter 
on the late revolutions, bringing the history down to 1848, and has 
added to its value by illustrations throughout, portraying the 
costume and the principal events of the reigns of which it treats. 

This treatise goes back, to the origin of the Celtic race, or the Cim- 
brians, as the offspring of Gomer, peopling the north and east of 
Europe on the one hand, and to the descendants of Cush — under the 
names of Scythians, Tartars, Goths, and Scotts. war-like wandering 
tribes, on the other, tracing the migrations of the hitter till they drove 
the Celts westward, and the Rhine forms the boundary between the 
two nations. From the Gauls it goes on to the reign of the Franks, 
Charlemagne, the Carlovingian race, the history of Normandy, and 
the history of France from the first crusade through its lines of 
monarchies and its revolutions, to 1848. The style is clear and 
forcible, and from the compactness of the work, forming as it does 
a complete chain of events in a most important part of the history 
of Europe, it will be found interesting and valuable for general 
readers, or as a text-book in our schools. It is comprised in 444 
pages, 12mo., and contains a chronological index and genealogy of 
the kings of France. — N. Y. Evening Post. 

Want of space prevents us from inserting all the recommendations 
received, we however insert the names of the following gentlemen, 
who have given their recommendations to the Histories: — 

SIMEON HART, Jr., Farmington, Conn. 

Rkv. D. R. AUSTIN, Principal of Monmouth Academy, Mon- 
son, Mass. 

T. L. WRIGHT, A. M., Principal of East Hartford Classical 
and English School. 

Rev. N. W. FISKE. A. M., Professor Amherst College, Mass. 

E. S. SNELL, A. M., Professor Amherst College, Mass. 

Rev. S. NORTH, Professor Languages, Hamilton College, N. Y. 

W. H. SCRAM, A. M., Principal of Classical and English Aca- 
demy, Troy, New York. 

JAMES F. GOULD, Principal of Classical School Baltimore. 

A. B. MYERS, Principal of Whitehall Academy, New York 
HORACE WEBSTER, Professor Geneva College, N. Y. 
W. C. FOWLER, Professor Middlebury College, Vermont. 

B. S. NOBLE, Bridgeport, Conn. 

Rev. S. B. HOWE, late President of Dickinson College 
B. F. JOSLIN, Professor Union College, New York. 



URCULLU'S SPANISH GRAMMAR. 

A Grammar of the Spanish Language, based on the system of 
D. Jose de Urcullu ; also with reference to the publications of 
the Academy of Spain, the Works of Hernandez & Josse, and 
the Compendium of Don Augustin Munoz Alvarez, of the Col- 
lege of Seville. According to the seventh Paris edition of Ur- 
cullu's Works, by Fayette Robinson. Price, $1. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 



27 



Gramatica Inglesa, reducida a Veinte y dos Lecciones, por D. 
Jose de Urcullu. Edicion prime ra Americana de la Septima de 
Paris. Aumentada y Revista por Fayette Robinson. Price, 

si. 

We are indebted to the publishers for a copy of this excellent 
Grammar of the Spanish Language, prepared by Fayette Robin- 
son. We have already welcomed Mr. Robinson in his literary 
efforts ; his works on Mexico, and on the Army of the United 
States, are valuable contributions to our literature, and the present 
work on the Spanish Language will deepen the foundations' of his 
reputation. The fact that Urcullu's Grammar has passed through 
seven editions at Paris, and two in London in a very short space of 
time, is ample evidence of the merits of his system of instruction. 

The following is Mr. Robinson's explanation of Urcullu's plan: 
" Varying from the usual routine of similar works, Urculla dimi- 
nished the number of mere rules, and substituted for them a care- 
ful system of comparison of the Spanish and English modes of 
expressing the same idea." He does not attempt to teach pronun- 
ciation by written rules, " in this respect following the precepts of 
Cobbett, who aptly enough observed, that a thousand volumes, or 
an Alexandrine library, would not suffice to teach a foreigner to 
pronounce the English words weight and which." 

The labors of Mr. Robinson, in this American edition, have con- 
tributed towards the perfection of Urcullu's Grammar, and we take 
much pleasure in commending this work to all who wish to ac- 
quire a thorough knowledge of the Spanish language, and who 
wish to have the journey made as smooth as may be consistent with 
utility and propriety. 

The publishers, Messrs. Thomas, Cowperthwait & Co., have 
also issued a Grammar, by the same author, designed for the use 
of Spaniards wishing to acquire the English language. This work 
has received additions and revision from Mr. Robinson, and may be 
relied on as a safe counsellor in the acquisition of the English lan- 
guage. 

These works have been published in beautiful style by Thomas, 
Cowperthwait & Co., and they deserve much credit for the manner 
in which they have discharged their duties. — Louisville Courier. 

It is handsomely printed, well edited, and, as we know from ex- 
perience, an excellent book. The same publishers have also issued 
an English Grammar for the use of Spaniards, by the same author 
and editor, and printed in the same style. It is equally worthy of 
commendation. — New York Tribune. 



OUTLINE SERIES. 

Published under the Direction of the Committee on Education and 
General Literature, appointed by the Society for Promoting 
Christian Knowledge. London. 



28 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT &, CO.'s 

These most valuable works are republished for the use of the 
schools of America. On those which needed revision, no pains nor 
expense have been spared, which could aid in giving them, in this 
country, the popularity and high reputation which attend them in 
England. Price 37£ cts. 

OUTLINES OF THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND, by G. 
Hogarth, with numerous Cuts, and Gtuestions for the use of 
schools. Price 37^ cents. 

OUTLINES OF GRECIAN HISTORY, by the Rev. B. 
Bouchier, M.A., with Maps,Views and Gtuestions. Price 37£ cts, 

OUTLINES OF ROMAN HISTORY, by G. Hogarth, 
with numerous Cuts and Gtuestions for Scholars. Price 37£ cts. 

OUTLINES OF AMERICAN HISTORY, with numerous 
Engravings, and Gtuestions for examination of PuDils Price 37£ 

cents. 

This work is the production of an eminent American histo- 
rian, and is added to render the series more complete. The author 
has adopted the able Outlines of England, Greece and Rome, by 
way of model, using the best authorities attainable, for his facts. 

OUTLINES OF THE HISTORY OF FRANCE. Price 
37^ cents. 

No series of books has appeared for a long time adapted to so 
great a number of classes in our schools generally. Those on 
Rome and England, and that on Greece which is to follow in a few 
weeks, were published under the direction of the Society for pro- 
moting Christian Knowledge, and they are spoken of in the highest 
terms in England. The Rev. James Pycroft, in his course of 
English Reading, a work which alone would prove him one of the 
profoundest men of the age, speaks of them repeatedly as the books 
which should, by all means, be put into every learner's hands as 
the first histories; and we fully concur in this opinion. — United 
States Gazette. 

They present a combination of brevity, completeness, and clear- 
ness of statement, which is seldom attained in a history. They are 
handsomely got up, and liberally embellished with appropriate illus- 
trations. They are highly recommended in England, particularly 
by Pycroft, whose judgment on such a subject is probably equal to 
that of any man living. As the price, (37£ cents each) is no obstacle, 
every one who has not studied history should have these Outlines 
put in his hands ; and many who have studied other works would be 
much benefited by these. — Philadelphia Enquirer. 

SCIENTIFIC PORTION OF THE OrjTLINES. 

OUTLINES OF BOTANY, by C. List, Esq. On the basis 
of the Sixth London edition of the work published by the Society 
for promoting Christian Knowledge. Price, 37£ cts. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 29 

OUTLINES OF ASTRONOMY, by the Rev. Professor Hall. 
Edited by C. List, Esq. Price, 37^ cts. 

OUTLINES OP NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, by C. List, 
Esq. Adapted to the series of the Society for promoting Chris- 
tian Knowledge. Price, 37s cts. 

I shall cheerfully recommend the work to Teachers as the best 
text book, within my knowledge, on the useful and interesting sci- 
ence of Botany. P. K. SWEETSER, 
Principal of Harvard Grammar School, Charlestown, Mass. 

This work is designed to make the study of Botany easy and in- 
teresting to the pupils of the Common Schools; and, in the clear 
and pleasing manner in which it presents the whole subject, is well 
adapted to answer the design ; and the beauty of its print, binding 
and copious illustrations, appropriately represents the department of 
nature to which it is devoted. — Hunt's Merchants' Magazine. 

I have examined with much pleasure your Outlines of Astro- 
nomy, and Outlines of Natural Philosophy. * * * They are ad- 
mirably adapted to the wants of beginners, and, from the sim- 
plicity of your illustrations, calculated to render the study of the 
subjects treated of, pleasing to all. J. H. BROWN, A. M. 

Principal of Zane street Grammar School, Philadelphia. 



THE CENTRAL SCHOOL READER. 

The Central School Reader : being a collection of Essays and Ex- 
tracts from approved writers, compiled by the " Female Associa- 
tion for the improvement of Juvenile Books." 12mo. shp. Price, 
75 cents. 

Extract from the Preface. 

In this age, when School Books have multiplied to such an extent, 
as to be spoken of as being "too much of a good thing," it may ap- 
pear needless to bring before the public another Reading Book. But, 
believing there is in our schools a want still unsupplied, the Com- 
pilers of this volume offer it as a work suited to vary the reading of 
the more advanced classes. 

It has no claims to originality, being simply a collection of prose 
and poetry from the most approved authors, formed with a care to 
exclude all pieces the subject-matter of which is not based upon 
truth. 



THE CHILD'S HISTORY of the UNITED STATES, 
Designed as a First Book of History for Schools; illustrated by 
numerous anecdotes, by Charles A. Goodrich, improved from 
the thirty-first edition. Philadelphia, 1848. Price, 34 cents. 



30 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT &, CO.'.S 

This is a delightful little book, and it would not be easy to fiud a 
more suitable one to put in the hands of children. 



PICOT'S SERIES OF FRENCH SCHOOL BOOKS, 

No. 1. FIRST LESSONS IN FRENCH. Price, 50 cts. 

No. 2. FRENCH STUDENT'S ASSISTANT. Price, 25 
cents. 

No. 3. INTERESTING NARRATIONS IN FRENCH. 
Price, 60 cents. 

No. 4. HISTORICAL NARRATIONS IN FRENCH. 
Price, 67 cents. 

No. 5. SCIENTIFIC, LITERARY, AND OTHER NAR- 
RATIONS. Price, 75 cents. 

No. 6. FLEURS DU PARNASSE FRANCAIS, or Ele 
gant Extracts from the best French Poets. Price, 67 
cents. 

No. 7. BEAUTIES OF THE FRENCH DRAMA. Price, 
75 cents. 

From Peter S. Du Ponceau, L.L.D., President of the American 
Philosophical Society, Philadelphia. 

I beg you will receive my thanks for the copy of the new edition 
of your " First Lessons in French," which you have done me the 
honour to present to me. I have read it with pleasure. The high 
reputation which you have acquired by the successful exercise of 
your profession in this city, during five and twenty years, renders 
any recommendation of that work entirely unnecessary : neverthe- 
less, I cannot help expressing my satisfaction at the publication of 
a work so well calculated for the instruction of our youth in the 
French language. 

From L. De La Forest, Consul General of France for the United 
States, residing in New York. 

My dear Sir, you wish to know what I think on the subject of 
the School Books which you published lately, viz: 

No. 1 — First Lessons in French, &c. 

No. 2.— The French Student's Assistant, &c. 

No. 3. — Interesting Narrations in French. 

No. 4. — Historical Narrations in French. 

No. 6. — Fleurs du Parnasse Francjais. 
My candid opinion is that they are excellent ; and as they are 
considered by many professors and other persons able to judge, as 
admirably calculated to facilitate the object for which they are in- 
tended, t hope they will be extensively used, and that your inces- 
sant efforts to make the American public profit by your long and 
valuable experience will be duly appreciated. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 31 

From the Courrier des Etats- Unis. 
Le plan, congu par M. Picot, est une cle inerveilleuse de la sci- 
ence qu'il professe; elle doit, a coup sur, aplanir a ses eleves bien 
des difficultes, en traduisant aux yeux la theorie et la parole du 
m ait re. 

From Dr. Togno, Principal of an Academy for Young Ladies, 
at Winchester, Va. 
I have carefully and minutely examined your Series of School 
Books, so well calculated to facilitate the acquisition of the French 
language. 1 feel convinced that your complete course of instruc- 
tion, if closely followed by an intelligent French teacher, will, with 
the aid of your method of pronunciation, double translation, &c.,&c, 
produce the most rapid and solid progress in the pupil with respect 
to the complete attainment of the spoken and written French lan- 
guage, as well as the expansion of the pupil's mind. 

Translation from the Courrier des Etats-Unis. 
The seven volumes which, at present, compose Mr. Picot's se- 
ries, form a gradual chain, skilfully and admirably combined, the 
first link of which initiates the scholar into the elements, the pro- 
nunciation and idiom of the language, and the last introduces him 
into the sanctuary of high literature. — 

From Profeseor E. C. Wines. 

They are evidently the production of a mind that knows by ex- 
perience the wants of pupils, and has the learning, taste and judg- 
ment necessary to meet them. 

From Professor Ver Mehr. 
Je crois, Monsieur, que votre methode d'enseigner la prononcia- 
tion est admirable. J 'en fais l'epreu ve sur quelques eleves, et elles me 
semblent s'y interesser et surmonter des difficultes, que je croyais 
in surmontables. Vous avez eu le talent d'etre court et clair. Vos 
" premieres legons frangaises" ainsi que votre u Recueil de Narra- 
tions historiques" seront dorenavant les livres de l'lnstitution ou 
j'enseigne. 

PICOT'S FRENCH PHRASES. 
PICOT'S SPANISH PHRASES. 



HENTZ'S FRENCH READER; a classical French Reader, 
selected from the best writers of that language, in Prose and Poe- 
try ; preceded by an Introduction, designed to facilitate the study 
of the Rudiments of the French. Price, 67 cents. 

PORNEY'S SYLLABAIRE FRANC AIS, or French Spell- 
ing Book. Eleventh edition. Price, 34 cents. 



32 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT &- C0. 1 S 

BRIDGE'S ALGEBRA. A Treatise on the Elementsof Alge- 
bra, by Rev. B. Bridge, D. D., F. R. S., Fellow of St. Peter's 
College, Cambridge, and late Professor of Mathematics in the 
East India College, Herts. Revised and corrected from the 
eighth London edition. Price, 67 cents. 

In this work, the hitherto abstract and difficult science of Al- 
gebra is simplified and illustrated so as to be attainable by the 
younger class of learners, and by those who have not the aid of a 
teacher. It is already introduced into the University of Pennsyl- 
vania, at Philadelphia, and the Western University, at Pittsburg. 
It is also the text- book of Gummere's School at Burlington, and 
Friend's College, at Haverford, and of a great number of the best 
schools throughout the United States. It is equally adapted to 
common schools and colleges. 

BONNYCASTLE'S ALGEBRA. An introduction to Men- 
suration and Practical Geometry, by John Bonnycastle, of the 
Royal Military Academy, Woolwich. To which is added a 
Treatise on Guaging; and also the most important Problems in 
Mechanics, by James Ryan, author of a Treatise on Algebra, 
the New American Grammar of Astronomy, the Differential 
and Integral Calculus, &c. Price, 67 cents. 

This work is well known as holding an eminent rank among 
Mathematical Treatises. 

GUMMERE'S SURVEYING. A Treatise on Surveying, con- 
taining the Theory and Practice. To which is prefixed a per- 
spicuous system of Plane Trigonometry. The whole clearly de- 
monstrated and illustrated by a large number of appropriate ex- 
amples, particularly adapted to the use of schools, by John Gum- 
mere, A. M., Fellow of the American Philosophical Society, 
and corresponding Member of the Academy of Natural Sciences, 
Philadelphia. Twentieth edition, carefully revised and enlarged 
by the addition of articles on the Theodolite, on Levelling and 
Topography, 1848. Price, $1 75. 

The favorable reception, and extensive circulation of this 
Treatise make recommendations unnecessary. 

A COMPLETE KEY TO GUMMERE'S SURVEYING ; 
in which the operations of all the Examples not solved in that 
work are exhibited at large. By Samuel Alsop. Price, $1. 

GUY AND KEITH. Guy on Astronomy and Keith on 
the Globes ; Guy's Elements of Astronomy, and an Abridge- 
ment of Keith's New Treatise on the Globes. Thirtieth Ame- 
rican edition, with additions and improvements, and an explana- 
tion of the astronomical part of the American Almanac Illus- 
trated with eighteen plates, drawn and engraved on steel, in the 
best manner. 

Recommendations. — A volume containing Guy's popular 

Treatise of Astronomy, and Keith on the Globes, having been sub- 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 33 

mitted to us for examination, and carefully examined, we can with- 
out any hesitation recommend it to the notice and patronage of pa- 
rents and teachers. The work on Astronomy is clear, intelligible, 
and suited to the comprehension of young persons. It comprises a 
great amount of information and is well illustrated with steel en- 
gravings. Keith on the Globes has long been recognized as a 
standard school book. The present edition, comprised in the same vol- 
ume with the Astronomy, is improved by the omission of much ex- 
traneous matter, and the reduction of size and price. On the whole, 
we know of no school book which comprises so much in so little 
space as the new edition of Guy and Keith. 

Thomas Eustace, Charles Mead, 

John Haslam, Benjamin Mayo, 

W. Curran, Hugh Morrow, 

Samuel Clendenin. J. H. Black. 

The following gentlemen of Baltimore, concur in the opinion 
above expressed. 

E. Bennett, O. W. Treadwell, 

C. F. Bansemar, James Shanley, 

E. R. Harney, David King, 

Robert O'Neill, Robert Walker, 

N. Spelman, D. W. B. M'Clelan. 



Recommendations of the same tenor have been received from the 
following gentlemen : 

WILLIAM G. MITCHELL, Lecturer on the Natural Sci- 
ences and Astronomv, in Wesleyan Academy, Mass. 

Rev. D. R. AUSTIN, A. M., Principal of Monson Aca- 
demy, Mass. 

T. L. WRIGHT, Principal of East Hartford Classical and 
English School. 

S. HART, Principal of Farmington Academy, Conn. 

C. D. WESTBROOK, D. D,. New Brunswick, N. J. 

W. H. SCRAM, A. M., Principal of Classical Academy, 
Troy, New York. 

E. H. BURRITT, Author of the Geography of the Heavens, 
New Britain, Conn* 

WM. C. FOWLER, Professor of Chemistry in Middlebury 
College, Vermont. 

B. S. NOBLE, Bridgeport, Conn. 

Rev. C. H. ALDEN, A. M., Principal of Philadelphia High 
School for Young Ladies. 

Rev. S. B. HOWE, late President of Dickinson College. 

Rev. Dr. WESTBROOK, Principal of Female Seminary and 
Rector of Rutgers' College Grammar School. 



do 


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34 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT &/ CO.'s 

GEO. B. GLENDINING, Principal of Young Ladies' Aca- 
demy, Troy, New York. 

M. CATL1N, A. M., Professor of Mathematics in Hamilton 
College, New York. 



PAULEY'S SERIES. 

PARLEY'S AMERICA, new and revised edition. Price 30cts. 
DO. EUROPE, do 

DO. ASIA, do 

DO. AFRICA, do 

DO, ISLANDS, do 

DO. TALES OF THE SEA, 
DO. ROME, do 

DO. GREECE, do 

DO. WINTER EVENING TALES, 
DO. JUVENILE TALES, 
DO. BIBLE STORIES, 
DO ANECDOTES, 
DO. SUN, MOON AND STARS, do 
DO. WASHINGTON, a new and valuable School Bio- 
graphy. Price, 37 1-2 cents. 
DO. FRANKLIN, do do Price, 37 1-2 cents. 

DO. COLUMBUS, do do dj. 



GOLDSMITH'S NATURAL HISTORY; Abridged for the 
use of Schools. To which is added an Appendix, exhibiting the 
classification of Linnaeus ; and a number of Questions to aid the 
Preceptor in the examination of Students. Illustrated by En- 
gravings. New and revised edition. Price, 75 cents. 

SMART'S CICERO, new edition, 12mo. Price, 75 cents. 

RUDDIMAN'S RUDIMENTS of the LATIN TONGUE, 
new and improved edition, with Notes, by Wm. Mann, A. M. 
Price, 38 cents. 

GERMAN AND ENGLISH PHRASES AND DIA- 
LOGUES, for the use of students in either language. By Fran- 
cis Graeter. Fifth enlarged and improved stereotype edition. 
Price, 67 cents. 

COLLECTANEA GRjECA MAJORA. Editio quarta Ame- 
ricana. 2 vols. Price, $4. 

THE PROSE SELECTIONS OF DALZEL'S COLLEC- 
TANEA GR^ECA MAJORA. For the use of schools and 
colleges. With English Notes. Prepared by C. S. Wheeler, 
Instructor in Greek, in Harvard University. Price, $2. 



CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL BOOKS. 35 

EPITOME HISTORY SACR^E. Editio vigtnti. Corrected 
and enlarged. Price, 30 cents. 

VIRI ILLUSTRES URBIS ROIVLE. A Romulo ad Augus- 
tum. Auctore C. F. L'homond, in fjniversitate Parisiensi Pro- 
fessore Emeritus. Editio novi-eboraci, emendata et stereotypa. 
To which is added a Dictionary of all the words which occur 
in the book ; wherein the primitives of compound and derivative 
words are minutely traced, and the irregularities of anomalous 
nouns and verbs are particularly mentioned. By James Har- 
die, A. M. Price, 40 cents. 

THE ENGLISH ORTHOGRAPHICAL EXPOSITOR. 

By Daniel Jaudon, Thomas Watson, and Stephen Adding- 
ton. Eighteenth edition. Price 38 cents. 

ENGLISH GRAMMAR, MADE EASY to the TEACH- 
ER AND PUPIL. Originally compiled for the use of West 
Town Boarding School, Pennsylvania. By John Comly. 
Fifteenth edition, corrected and much improved. Price, 25 cts. 

CLARK'S CtESAR. New edition, carefully corrected by com- 
parison with a standard London edition, and containing various 
emendations in the Notes, By William Mann, A. M. Price, 

$1 25. 



CLEVELAND'S LATIN SERIES. 

FIRST LATIN BOOK. Being the Author's original "First 
Lessons in Latin," thoroughly revised and remodelled, with nu- 
merous improvements. By C. D. Cleveland, formerly Pro- 
fessor of the Latin and Greek Languages in Dickinson College, 
Carlisle, Pa., and of the Latin Language and Literature in the 
University of the city of New York. Price, 62 cents. 

SECOND LATtN BOOK. Being the first part of Jacobs and 
Doering's Latin Reader, with an enlarged and critical Vocabu- 
lary. By C. D. Cleveland. Price, 75 cents. 

THIRD LATIN BOOK. Consisting of Selections from Jus- 
tin's History, from Cain's Julius Caesar, and from the Lives of 
Cornelius Nepos. With Notes, philological, historical and oth- 
wise descriptive. By C. D. Cleveland. Price, 62 cents. 

A GRAMMAR OF THE LATIN LANGUAGE, on the 
basis of the Grammar of Dr. Alexander Adam, of Edinburgh. 
By C. D. Cleveland. Price, 67 cts. 
The following remarks on Professor Cleveland's Series, we extract 
from Hunt's Merchant 's Magazine : — 

They are well calculated for leading the learner forward, step 
by step, in acquiring a knowledge of that language which enters so 
largely into all our scientific works, and the formation of the lan- 
guage which we speak. The first is founded on the Author's ori- 
ginal " First Lessons in Latin," which was the first of those 



36 THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO.'s 

"First Lessons" which have now become so numerous. The 
Grammar is founded on Adams' Latin Grammar, and the Second 
Latin Book on Jacobs and Doering's Latin Reader. These origi- 
nals, of course, need no comment. They are known to every 
teacher as belonging to the first class of Latin school books ; and 
the notej, and the excellent arrangement made by the present Edi- 
tor, will be found by the student to give them great additional value. 
We may add to this, that the mechanical execution of the books is 
of a superior order. 



BROOKS' ROSS' LATIN GRAMMAR, with Latin Idioms, 
and a new Prosody, and other important Additions and Emenda- 
tions, by N. C. Brooks, A. M., Professor of the Latin and 
Greek Languages, and Principal of the Latin High School, 
Baltimore. Price, 60 cts. 

This favorite work, familiar to so many as a guide and com- 
panion in the study of the Latin language, makes its appearance 
from the careful hands of Mr. Brooks, in an highly improved form 
The new emendations relate both to arrangement and matter. — A 
more definite order is introduced into the various parts, with more 
clear illustrations. In Syntax the number of rules is lessened with- 
out the omission of any thing essential, and this advantage is gained 
by a masterly analysis of the principles of the language, as applied 
to the syntactical construction. A new system of Prosody is intro- 
duced in place of the Prosody of Ross, which was for the most part 
in Latin. The work altogether is much improved, and in its pre- 
sent form it cannot but come into general use; for the intrinsic 
merits of this Grammar are confessedly great, and they are now 
enhanced by the careful supervision of an accomplished scholar. 
We observe that several experienced teachers in the city have 
adopted it in their schools in consequence of the valuable improve- 
ments made from the original by Mr. Brooks. — Baltimore Ameri- 
can. 

From the Methodist Protestant. 

The publishers have issued a work well worthy the attention of 
the country : and have done no little credit to their good judgment 
by inviting the assistance of so profound and indefatigable a scholar 
as our esteemed and excellent neighbour and friend; Professor 
Brooks; who instead of having edited a new edition of Ross, as is 
modestly set forth in the title page, may be said, rather, to have 
furnished the public with a Latin Grammar, in the preparation of 
which he has availed himself, by way of assistance, mainly of the 
Grammar of Mr. Ross. 

We have no hesitation in commending this book, highly. — we 
have not seen its superior. It ought to have a rapid sale; and, as 
we have no doubt, many future editions will attest its deserved 
popularity. Professor Brooks is passionately fond of literature, is a 
ripe and elegant scholar, quite enthusiastic in his profession, and 
well merits the high reputation to which he has attained. 






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